


The Deal with Dr. Watson's Flatmate

by BakerTumblings



Series: Dr. Watson's Flatmate [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 221B Baker Street, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, BAMF John, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Eventual Happy Ending, Hospitals, IOC (Intruder on campus), John Watson is an Intensivist, John is a Very Good Doctor, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Medical Trauma, Medical adventures, Misunderstandings, Orchestra, Sherlock Has Secrets, Sherlock's Violin, Shoulder dislocation, a bit of plot, medical staff meeting, mention of very consensual restraints, working night shift is hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-12
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:39:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 20,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4534815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dr. John Watson has been hired at the hospital as an Intensivist, where his path was crossed by Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes.  They have become flatmates, domestic partners (although neither would appreciate <i>that </i>particular label), and are ready to share some adventures of both the medical and criminal type.  Sherlock and John find challenges, issue challenges to each other, and John discovers an extremely manipulative side of Sherlock.  No surprises, there.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sherlock Makes a Deal - and Loses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a follow-up work to Dr. Watson's Flatmate, where John and Sherlock meet because Mike Stamford recommended Dr. Watson for the Intensivist position at the hospital, where his path crosses Sherlock's. They strike up a relationship fraught with irritability and tension, become flatmates, and more. It's probably not necessary to read that first, although they did have a great deal of fun and witty banter.
> 
> Chapter one picks up at the end of the prior story, where Sherlock has been injured, John sutures up his arm, and they end up in the on-call room, where John occasionally tries to get some rest during his night shifts. Yeah, not so much.

Dr. Watson turned his steps toward the on-call room.  The patients had settled down, the A&E had placed it’s last admission, with only legal blood alcohol draws remaining in the holding bays at present.  And he was very ready to pay a visit to the on-call room, where he had sent his flatmate a few hours previously after suturing up his arm.  

Sherlock had a glimmer in his eye, the last he’d seen him, as John tried to alleviate the boredom that may have ensued until John would be able to meet him.  “Don’t worry,” he’d said, “I am bringing restraints.”  While John had a few qualms and reservations about Sherlock being in the call room with him, there was no way, however, that they would be actually using them while John was on duty.  The possibility for interruption, discovery, or worse was enough to have settled that in John’s mind.  At home, though, perhaps seeing his flatmate cross-tied to the bedframe would be a pleasant dalliance.  And satisfying for both of them, ultimately anyway.

He’d threatened Sherlock with them a few weeks previously in order to get him to cooperate with a CAT scan after he’d sustained an injury with mental status change.   An on-going threat, then, never carried out.   Until now, at least.  Thank goodness for deep pockets of his clinical lab coat, embroidered in red letters over left breast pocket.

As the door came into view, John removed his keys, and paused, his step slowing.  He considered the likelihood of an ambush awaiting him just inside the door.  Sherlock’s newly sutured arm would probably be slightly painful, but the berk had a ridiculously high pain tolerance and John didn’t think it would stop him.  Whatever his plan for entering the room, it would have to be quickly decided, as Sherlock would get suspicious if there was too much of a delay after hearing the jingling of  keys in the hallway.

John went into the room in a bit of a crouch with an arm up as he’d learned early in mandatory boot camp until he was (mercifully) assigned into the medical corps where he belonged.  So when he was grabbed from behind around the top of the head instead of the neck as intended, he was able to wrench around, catching Sherlock’s tall and now slightly off-balance form from the side, pinning one arm and holding head low, while legs held him safely out of harms way.

“Have a care with my fresh sutures,” John growled, low.  Sherlock had initially struggled a bit, caught off-guard and he bobbled as not to completely lose his footing.  And then he was eerily still...

...and just as the hair on the back of John’s neck prickled, he felt something metal slip around his wrist and click tight, the slight bite of metal digging just slightly into his skin.  A handcuff, then.

He froze.  “Shit!”  He twisted his wrist in the manacle.  “ _What are you thinking_?” he hissed.

“Exactly,” Sherlock said, grinning, as John shifted enough to maneuver what he hoped was a safe position keeping his other wrist out of Sherlock’s reach.

“ _Jesus, Sherlock, do you have a key for that_?”

“Back at the flat.  When I stole these off Donovan, I didn’t want to risk getting caught by also stealing the key.   _Really_  John, obvious.”

 _“Sherlock.”_ John looked at him with incredulous frustration.  “I don’t keep lockpicks here.  I’m  _working_ , you daft git.”

“Oh.”  Then, Sherlock, realising his blunder, said, “Ooooh,” blinked as the teasing atmosphere in the room changed, deflated.  “Oops.  Maybe...”

And on cue, John’s phone rang, then, and John fixed a furious glance at Sherlock as he answered the call.  One of the patients needed a urinary catheter that the nurses had been unsuccessful in placing due to bleeding and obstruction; the patient was in distress.  “I have to go.  This is going to be difficult to explain if it’s seen.  You can be such a bloody big idiot sometimes.”  John slid his sleeve down, it covered most of the cuff.  Until he moved, the free end jingling. 

Glaring, he reached into his pocket, deliberately removed the soft limb restraints he’d five-fingered, then tossed them aside, and withdrew a roll of silk tape.  His sleeve went up, and he secured the other end of the cuff up along the lower side of his arm, just high and tight enough to remain silent and out of sight.  When Sherlock reached out as if to help, John snarled, “Touch me and you are a dead man.”  Sherlock realised the depth of his blunder, because as a physician, soon to be appointed the director of the intensivist program, they were not words John would ever say lightly. 

John pulled his sleeve back down over the now secured and silent hardware, looked over at Sherlock.  “I’m sorry, John,” he said with a neutral expression for a few seconds until the corners of his mouth twitched, and before he could help it too much, they were both chuckling.  John’s mirth was brief, and quickly replaced by aggravation.

“I’m regretting many things right now.  I would take back the call room key except that it wouldn’t stop you.”  He crossed to the door.  “I highly recommend you pray this isn’t seen.”  He leaned back, lowered his voice, murmured, “There  _will_  be retribution.   _Count on it_.”

To his credit, Sherlock looked contrite first, barely, then his pupils dilated in arousal and anticipation, and John disappeared, still shaking his head.

The rest of the shift passed in fortunate obscurity, although John was busy until it was time to leave.  The patient who’d needed the catheter was also positive for a MRSA infection, on isolation, which conveniently added a layer of invisibility to his arms once they were covered with the impervious isolation gown.

When John arrived home at Baker Street, there was a handcuff key taped eye level to the outside of the entryway door at the top of the landing.  He snagged it on his way in.

In the bedroom, Sherlock had donned the soft wrist restraints, leaving them untied, long white straps hanging.  The only other thing he was wearing was a smile.  Well, and the white bandage over the stitches John had placed earlier.  John could only shake his head.  Life would never again be boring, provided he survived his flatmate’s indiscretionary behaviour.

John grinned, his gaze falling to Sherlock’s waist, lower.  “I can tell you’re glad to see me.”

“I’ve been hard for  _hours_  now.”  He took the key from John’s hand, made quick work of John’s white lab coat and rolled up his sleeve to get at the lock.  “I am sorry, you know, I wasn’t thinking.”  The grin deepened on Sherlock's face.  "Well, actually, I _was_ thinking..."  He ran a finger transiently over John's scarred shoulder, ending under his chin.

“No one noticed, lucky for you.”  The cuff came off, and Sherlock grinned again as he pulled the tape securing the loose cuff, taking a good amount of blond arm hair with it.  John didn’t fuss despite the exquisite though brief pain, but an eye narrowed in response.  He was still mulling over the various ways he was considering retribution against his flatmate.  “But I have been well aware.  And have not been hard.  I’ve been rather concerned.”  When Sherlock was clearly surprised by his statement, John paused.  “Any thoughts as to why?”

It was probably a wise decision that Sherlock did not volunteer any smart-arsed remarks, speculations, or comments as to anything remotely unreasonable.

“Here’s what it was not:  it had very little to do with the handcuff.  Which was just stupid and out of character for you, too.”

Sherlock shrugged, partly, John thought, afraid to venture a guess and be incorrect.

“So the knife wound, defensive obviously.”  John lifted Sherlock’s arm using the soft restraint, appreciating if not commenting on the convenience.  “Where was your back up?  Was Lestrade there?”  Texts had been exchanged earlier, so John already knew that Lestrade wasn’t there, and Sherlock picked up on that fact, too, and kept silent.  “Foolishness - rashness - doesn’t become you.  What if it was your chest, or even worse, your neck instead of your arm?”  John was slipping out of the rest of his clothing, hung up the lab coat, the rest tossed in a laundry hamper.  “And the handcuff was rash, too.  Not well thought out.”

John’s body might have been physically exhausted - night shift hours were bloody difficult on a person - but sliding into bed with a partner who was all long gangly limbs, particularly one who was emitting all kinds of sexual frustration and craving amorous attention, seemed to perk John up rather quickly.  Sherlock grabbed at his wrist, the one recently freed from the cuff, rubbed his thumb over the deep grooves the metal had bitten into his skin.  “Oops again,” he said, slightly apologetic.  “These are better for that reason,” he said, shoving one of his own decorated wrists in front of John.

“You realize I could tie you up and go sleep upstairs?  Or tie you up and wreak all kinds of personal havoc on your _person_ , yeah?”

“You won’t.  You’re tired.  You’re after a quick orgasm and hoping I’ll get out of bed as soon as you’re asleep.”

“Well, you do attack in your sleep.  All those ridiculously long bones.”

“ _Bones_?  Oh please.  Your medical humour is sorely lacking after working all night.”  John deftly knotted the cords hanging from Sherlock’s wrists together and anchored them in a slipknot to the corner of the headboard frame, leaving him on his side, facing away.  With strong arms, he pulled the lanky body toward the footboard until his arms were stretched to their fullest.

“You ok with that?”  John reached toward the nightstand for lube.  “Don’t need a safeword or anything?”

“Oh, please, one pull and I’m out of that.  Your knots are pathetic.  This is not what I had in mind, you know.”  He was really winding up, whinging at John, and would have continued had John not bitten him on the back of the scapula to shut him up.  Sherlock gasped, mostly in surprised pleasure, and stopped talking.

“Oh, yes, I know what you had in mind.  And it would have been problematic had my pager gone off for a stat call, or a code, while we were in the middle of something.  Or security on rounds checking the on-call room.”  His hands were quickly nipping in various sensitive places, waist, iliac crest, nipple before squeezing, warming and deftly applying lube to various body parts in need of it.  “It was bad enough that the handcuff got involved.”  He pressed in close, fingers having done enough preparatory work to have Sherlock writhing just a bit.  “I think you’ll enjoy this well enough.”  John levered his grasp to keep Sherlock’s arms stretched out long, rib cage expanded, back arched. Sherlock, having been aroused longer, climaxed first, and the sensations around John were intense enough to wring a few shaky moans as he joined him.

Digging his toes into the sheets, he reached up a few minutes later, gave a simple tug to the slipknot, releasing Sherlock’s arms.  Pressing soft lips to the smooth spot between Sherlock’s shoulder blades, John murmured quietly, “And I’m not hoping you’ll get up after I fall asleep, by the way.  This is very nice.”  His arms drew tighter as Sherlock pulled up the sheet.  The last thing John heard before falling asleep was the sound of the soft limb restraints being removed and hitting the floor.

++

A frequent collateral damage of shift work, John awakened with a sudden jolt, sitting upright as his brain worked feverishly to immediately figure out where he was, if there was a crisis, what time it was, where he was going, how long he had before heading back in to work, and had he forgotten anything mission critical.  It was still light outside, and would be a few hours until the alarm would go off.  The long strap of a discarded wrist restraint caught his eye, and he slid an arm backwards to evaluate the emptiness of the other side of the bed, found it cold.  He slid his legs out of bed, realizing Sherlock had exhausted him so much before they fell asleep that he slept naked, again.  Donning pyjama bottoms, he padded out to the kitchen, where he found a substantial amount of remnants from what appeared to have started as a leafy substance and was now burnt beyond recognition into a pile of char.  Several piles, in fact.  He felt his jaw clench.  There was quite a hint of an odor, clearly some smoke had existed at one point, and there were two windows open in an obvious attempt to ventilate and aerate the flat.

John considered the teakettle to be in unscathed condition, fired it up, turned back to the detritus of whatever his flatmate had been up to.  He pondered the new batteries in the smoke detectors and thought perhaps they should invest in another for the first floor, bringing the total to 3 for the small amount of rooms.  The fire extinguishers hadn’t been discharged, but one had definitely been moved nearby.  None of this gave John a particular measure of comfort.

The door opened, in walked said arsonist, immediately and obviously alarmed and a tad disappointed to see that his antics had been discovered.  “Oh.  You’re up already?”

John let the obvious statement hang unsaid.  “How’s your arm?” he asked, an edge to his question, his eyes flicking around the mess Sherlock had left.  His query was a side attack, a decoy to what was clearly in need of being discussed, and deliberately stated in order to keep Sherlock off balance just slightly.  And, John knew without a doubt, Sherlock was not going to appreciate the other issue that they needed to have a serious chat about.

“Fiiiiine,” he answered tentatively, stretching out the word while he apparently tried to separate John’s recent awakening with the degree of anger over the living conditions.  They had bloody talked about this, more than once.  There was a bit of hesitancy before opting to dodge the issue.  John watched solemnly as Sherlock hung up his Belstaff, then moved close, raised his sleeve to prove the wound was at least not hemorrhaging and the dressing remained intact.  They were close enough for John to lift the arm for better visibility, and he tipped back the corner of the bandage, nodded his approval that all was within normal limits.

“I need to talk to you.”

“Yeah, about that, I’m going to take care of it, you were never in any...” he paused, afraid he’d said too much, but even more, noticed that John was shaking his head.  

“Not about this.  Because you will clean this up until I am satisfied.  And we will be splitting the cost for another smoke detector.  Mrs. Hudson and I will be insisting.  But don’t make me involve her.”  John stretched, fatigue still most definitely with him, and he was still in need of more sleep before heading back in to work.  Decaf tea, then.  He held up the tin to Sherlock, who shook his head.  “So.  You in the middle of something time sensitive?”

“No, just considering the increased or decreased sensitivity of wide leafed tobacco that has been infiltrated with ... various substances.”  

Ah, Sherlock and his evasive maneuvers strike again.  John did not flinch.  “What substance did you just bring home?”  When Sherlock didn’t answer, John continued.  “The one in your coat pocket.  Conveniently left there, I see.”  At Sherlock’s non-response, he continued, “Don’t think for a second that I won’t search your pockets and possibly anywhere else on your person, in order to find out.”

“And you think that’s an incentive to tell you?   _John_.”  His smile was disarming, and he knew it as he stretched out his arms.  “Have at it.  Maybe there’ll be a surprise?”  His blue eyes were sparkling, tiny lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes, and he took a step closer to further entice.

“I’m a bloody physician.  Albeit a tired one.  How many more surprises do you think there are?  I swear, some days I think I’ve seen them all.”  His weekend rotation in A&E in his residency had been enlightening - cavity searches, foreign bodies in assorted orifices, inadvertent overdoses, and sexual activities gone horribly wrong.  

“The handcuff was a surprise.”  He grinned arrogantly.  “You were expecting me to make a move,  _well done_ , but you were not expecting that.”

John’s eyes closed.  Had he just been so foolish to issue another challenge to his already impulsive/half-knocked flatmate?  Sherlock’s capricious behavior was, on a good day, difficult enough to predict - John was loathe to consider if he was actually _trying_ to act volatile or outrageous.  Teacup in hand, then, he launched.  “So, okay, here’s the problem.  Yes, another rule,” he offered, seeing Sherlock about to protest.  “Lay off the Med Exec board.  What we have here is an absolute conflict of interest -  _yours_  - in my job.  You need to abstain from voting on me getting the lead intensivist position.  You may not lobby for higher salary.  You need to quietly and without fussing fade into the background on any decisions about these issues.  Because when they find out, which they will, or when we tell them, which we eventually need to, it could create problems for me as well as for you.  And I like this job, and don’t want to jeopardize it.  We need the money.  And your board position, well...” John watched his face, stopped.  “Yes, I said we.  You have an issue with that?”  Sherlock shook his head in the negative.  “Keep up, here.  Don’t jeopardize either one.  And I highly recommend, from here on, out, you stay out of the on-call room.  Security cameras.”

“You sent me there last night.”

“My mistake.”  He set the tea cup down, appreciating the warmth, feeling rather languid now.  “My contract kicks in after six months.  We can either go with full disclosure now, which I am ok with, or we wait until after that.”  John stretched, stood up, returned the empty cup to the kitchen.  “We can talk later if you need to.  I’m curious to hear what you think about it.  After a few more hours’ sleep I mean.”

“I can tell you now.  I agree to yet another of your boring rules.”  At John’s expression, Sherlock almost chortled.  “See, surprised you again.”  He gave John a gentle shove back toward the bedroom.  “Go sleep.  You look terrible.  And in no condition to make life-and-death decisions.”

++

John’s next day off was a bit of a blur until after his second cup of coffee, when his higher logical functions were somewhat restored.  Shift work was never harder than that last day, when he woke up earlier than he wanted in the interest of getting back on schedule.

Sherlock had apparently been busy studying ash, and never did actually confess to what he had been experimenting on as far as burning accelerators he was using.  It wasn’t until after John’d showered and dressed that he noticed the lone handcuff on the table.

“Planning on returning this, then?” he asked, picking it up.

“Planning on using it, actually.”  He raised his head, looked directly at John.  “I’ve been meaning to ask you, though.  Is there anything strictly off-limits?”

“Off limits.”  John tested the words and considered their relation to the flat and the flatmate.  “Would it matter?  Do you ever actually comply with limits?”

“I might.”  The corners of his mouth turned up just slightly and he reconsidered.  “Doubtful.  Regardless, it’s good to know where the boundaries lie as you cross them.”

“So you’re asking me for my weaknesses?  Things that will only serve to tempt you to try?”  The belly laugh was a warm bubbly sound.  John continued, “Yeah, I won’t be giving you that ammunition.”

Sherlock was completely engaged now, intrigued, and his eyes narrowed in the thrill of the hunt.  “How long is the list, then?”

John didn’t bat an eye.  “How long is yours?”  He made it sound as filthy as possible, and both smirked then grew serious again.

“I’m rather amenable to more than you are, I suspect.”  John kept his face neutral but didn’t doubt the truth of that statement.  “I think I would prefer to draw the line before adding a third person.  Unless that was something that was a hidden, secret fantasy of yours, in which case it would be open for discussion.”

“No.  No additional partners.”  John could almost palpate the charge in the room.  “Not interested in sharing.  Most days,  _you_  are enough of a handful by yourself.”

“Of course.  No sharing for either of us.”  There was a dangerous sparkle in his eye.  “So if I ask you about something specific, will you tell me if it would be acceptable behaviour?”

“How about, if something were to come up, and it’s not okay, that we speak up and respect the boundaries then?”

Sherlock smiled as he reached for the metal cuff.  “So this is ok?”  When John was silent, Sherlock reached out for his wrist, noted the thrill of a bounding pulse.

“Ok, absolutely.”  His voice lowered.  “But not necessary.  I’ll bet you that I can stay perfectly still and in whatever position you choose, without them.”

“I’ll bet that you can’t.”  Sherlock stood then, tucked one end of the handcuff into his belt, drawing attention to the fullness in his trousers.  “Stakes?”

“One favour.  Nothing immoral or illegal.  To be redeemed within ten days.”

“Deal.”  Bargain sealed with a handshake, John tugged on Sherlock’s hand, drawing him solidly against him, other hand slithering into the unruly curls.  He didn’t have much on Sherlock, but he knew about sensitive hair follicles, and was not disappointed when Sherlock moaned into their open-mouthed snog.  Sherlock turned and led the way to the bedroom.

Despite Sherlock’s best efforts - and John would rather die than admit it, they were really herculean efforts - John called into fruition every ounce of previous military training and was able to hold still, arms and legs spread, face down, back arched, while being coaxed, prodded, and  _licked_  into probably the best delayed orgasm of his life. Sherlock had drawn it out, prolonging John’s gratification, watching for reactions and knowing already exactly what John found escalating.  It was an exquisite, heavenly torture, until John was quivering and breathlessly needy.  He had been ready to give up, give in, words forming in his throat, grab every piece of Sherlock he could reach.  He was ready to cling hard enough to bruise, to never let go when Sherlock had finally let John plummet over the edge of his limits into a blissful, violent release.  John would be loathe to admit how close he’d come to surrender.  And when Sherlock, admitting defeat, was working himself into a bit of a sulk, flat on his back, sweat drying on his own skin, arm thrown elegantly over his eyes, John heard him mutter, “Not a bad deal, really, I suppose.  Losing a bet in all that pleasure.”  John was basking in a post-coital exhausted wrung out state, still prone, muscles aching at the expense of taut, self-imposed restraint. 

John grinned, and even as he tried to prevent it, a deep chuckle leaked out from his chest and Sherlock glared in his direction.  

“Shut up, John.”

A few days later, the wheels clicked into place like landing gear for repayment of the debt.  Had John tried to orchestrate the details, he would never have imagined such perfection that presented itself to him.

++

Back on day shift, thankfully, he arrived home from work, late again - God, it would be great when the Med Exec board next got together and approved additional hiring - and Sherlock was actually heating up dinner.  “What is this, then?”  John could count on one hand the number of times dinner had actually awaited him.

“I’m repaying my debt to you.  This is your favour.”

Staring just a bit, he angled his head at his flatmate’s odd interpretation of both debt and favour.  “No, it’s not.  Actually.”

“It’s pretty good.  Mrs. Hudson’s recipe.”  Sherlock was at his conniving best, and John could see it clearly in his forced nonchalance.

“Did she make it and you’re trying to take credit?”

“I’m not that unscrupulous.”

“Since when?  If you thought you could get away with it, of course you would.”  John paused as Sherlock passed him a dirty look.  “The thing about owing someone a favour, in this case anyway, is that they get to ask for it.  I get to ask, and I have not yet done so.”

“Well, just figure out what you want then, and get it over with.”  There was a brief, hinted look of dread on his face, and it stirred a bit of something akin to tenderness in John’s chest.

“Do you really think for a minute I’m going to ask for something unpleasant or do something that’s going to make you - and therefore both of us - miserable?”  When Sherlock was silent, the answer was obviously that he did expect something negative.  “What have I ever done to deserve that?”

“You’re a power hungry control freak, that’s all.”  Sherlock’s typical light-hearted banter and sharp cynicism was curiously missing.  “You and your stupid rules.  You’re dragging it out intentionally.”

“What is the matter with you?”  He shook his head, watched as Sherlock divided dinner onto two plates, set it down.  “Okay, no more waiting.  I promise.  This weekend, Saturday night, I’ll tell you.  I’ll try to come up with something.”  John pondered the reaction, seeing that he was acting like a spoiled child who always got his way.  He wondered, not for the first time, about Sherlock’s childhood and how warped it may or may not have been.  “You just don’t like losing.  And this might be my only time to really have ever won, so don’t rush me, because it might not ever happen again.”

After dinner, and things had calmed down, John crossed to his pack, pulled out something, handed it to Sherlock.  “I almost forgot.  Had a patient this week, got talking music.  I ended up getting tickets to Saturday’s matinee, the Symphony, I think?  Or was it the Symphony Orchestra?” He absolutely knew the difference, threw out a bit of a red herring.  “He gave me a copy of one piece they’re doing.  He had it with him, of all things.  Anyway, here ‘tis, in case you wanted to fuss at it. Throw it out, s’fine.”  John shrugged.  “And the tickets were free, we don’t have to go.”

He was rather interested, thumbed into the music.  “This is one of my favorites.  It’s what I was playing a few weeks back with the telly, remember?”

John shrugged.  “Not really, I mean the playing I do.  That very piece, that’s odd.”  Sherlock had tuned his violin to the TV performance, was playing along, and was bloody amazing.  John remembered the Vivaldi composition very well.

“Well, it won’t sound as good without my orchestra behind me,” he said cheekily, taking the sheet music and crossing to the stand, picking up his violin, “but... this is a great piece.”  

Sherlock tuned, his fingers loosening up on a few quick scales, and he limbered up on the first bars and measures until the first violin solo came up, as John was now well aware.  His fingers worked his phone discreetly from his pocket, hitting record.

The next half hour, John zoned out on the outside, anyway.  A several minute piece of the recording emailed off to the conductor, the son of John’s patient who had been critically ill the first 48 hours in hospital, but had rallied nicely.  The text back was fairly prompt, “ **Rehearsal is 1030 am for the noon performance.  Concert dress, provided you can pull this off**.”  The next text actually had a few music note emoticons, and then “ **I should tell you I will be actively trying to recruit him.  Talent**!”

“Who was the connection, again?” Sherlock asked, and John worked hard at a disinterested expression.

“Hmm?”  It was easy to feign interest in his mobile.  “What connection?”

“To the Symphony Orchestra, John.   _Please_.”

“Patient’s son is the ... director?”

“You mean  _conductor_.  God, there’s a huge difference.  Do you only speak medicine?”  

He shrugged again, off-handedly.  “She’ll probably still be in hospital tomorrow.  I can look him up if you want.”  The smile reached his eyes and John seemed to enlighten, himself.  “Hey, maybe if I see him, I could ask if you could sit in on the dress rehearsal of that.  If we’re going to the performance anyway.  He really was a nice guy, and would, probably anyway, be okay with that.”  Sherlock raised a shoulder and both eyebrows, then nodded.  “I mean, it’s only a matinee performance anyway, so rehearsal’s probably not a big deal at all.”  Sherlock poked his nose back into the music, fine tuning again and picking through a few arpeggios and phrases from the piece.  “I’ll try not to forget,” John added, casually.

The next day, John set a reminder on his phone to text Sherlock at noon.  It read, “ **1030 am rehearsal for the Vivaldi Four Seasons (Spring).  Sound ok?  JW** ” 

Not given to emoticons, the closest thing Sherlock could find was the colon and capital D.  John nodded, smiling, hoping the more critical piece of this plot would not upset his flatmate too terribly.

Saturday morning, Sherlock downplayed his excitement, as John tried to sleep in (failed, drat that week of night shifts), running through a few measures of the piece.  Timing things just right, John entered the sitting room, a bit nervously, stood in front of him.  Sherlock noticed immediately.  “What?”

“I’m cashing in my favour.”

“What?   _Now_?  You realize we have to leave soon.”

He tried to gauge how best to start, and the silence was perhaps a bit not good.

“John.”  Sherlock’s tone was more impatient than usual.

“The conductor has requested you to arrive at 1030, in concert dress.”

It was fully 30 seconds before John saw Sherlock’s chest expand, verifying that he was indeed still breathing.  “That is unheard of.  Certainly you misunderstood.”  John watched the physical responses to stress - dilated pupils, bounding pulsatile carotids, eyes wide, the faintest brush of sweaty palms against his trousers.

“I sent him video, well, it was mostly audio, of you playing the piece.”  He held up his mobile, wriggled it.  "Of the solo."

Absolute stillness greeted him.  John continued, “He wants you to rehearse with them.  If it goes well, to play with them.”  Stony silence.  “Be forewarned, he’s going to try to recruit you.”

More hesitating, and Sherlock looked cautiously intrigued.  “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you’ll do it.  I mean, their regular first chair will play it, if you don’t.  But it should be a good time, right?”

He raised an eyebrow.  “A good time?  You’ve obviously never performed.  That might not be the correct term for a stage performance.”

At that comment, John stood up, faced him square.  “Do you remember when I stitched up your arm?”

“Of course.”

“That was performing, yeah?”

“Okay, so was that fun or a good time?”  He rubbed the scar under his sleeve.  “I don’t recall it that way.”

“Okay, maybe a poor word choice.  But with your arm, it was successful, it went well, it was memorable.  Affirming.  A chance to prove something.”  He couldn’t resist poking a bit at Sherlock, then.  “And I’m sure if you are horrid at rehearsal that you will be _un_ invited, you realise.”

“As if,” he said quickly, arrogantly.  Still, he blew out a breath of disbelief, and John continued to watch him.  Sherlock swallowed hard, looked at the music again, his violin, then pursed his lips, shrugging.  “S’only a matinee, not like really anyone will be there anyway.”

John, again, worked hard to keep his face dispassionate, having been made privy to the guest list.  “Exactly, probably no one at at all.”

His expression must have revealed something despite his best efforts, because Sherlock narrowed an eye in aggravation.  “You invited Mycroft, didn’t you.”  His glare was rather accusatory.

“I might have mentioned it,” John let the supposed guilt show on his face, then, and Sherlock went to dress.  Once the room was clear, John let out a huge breath, as quietly as he could.

They arrived 15 minutes early, and the conductor, Dr. Perry, greeted them both inside the door.  “Dr. Watson, almost didn’t recognise you.  Out of uniform you know.”  

John greeted him, inquired about his mother, received an expression of gratitude and positive update.  Then Dr. Perry turned, said, “Mr. Holmes, heard a lot about you.   _This one_ ,” he said, gesturing with his head at John, “couldn’t bloody shut up about you.”  They shook hands.  “And after hearing you, I can understand why.  Ready?” he asked, excitement and a bit of conspiracy leaking into his words.

“Yes, sir,” and they proceeded to the stage, Dr. Perry explaining the timing of getting Sherlock on and then off the stage discreetly.  John followed at a distance, feeling just a bit nervous on his behalf.  Sherlock, on the other hand, was standing confident, resplendent in formalwear, curls already reflecting stage lighting.  John watched from the wings as Dr. Perry introduced him, working casual conversation into pre-rehearsal warm up and tuning.  The concertmaster stood at Sherlock’s elbow, and John watched, fascinated, as he quickly versed Sherlock in stage presence, the stand position, the need for his gaze to encompass music, conductor, and orchestra over his left shoulder.  They warmed up on the first piece of the evening, and Sherlock sight-read it.  John could tell even from his location, many feet from their spot on stage, that the concertmaster and Dr. Perry were both impressed with his ability.  

Dr. Perry gestured Sherlock to his mark on the platform, standing, pointed to the stand and waited until he placed it and then nodded back at him, indicating he was ready.  The baton raised, counted out a measure, and the orchestra began, the lilt of the first measures rising, and John felt his eyes drift closed as the orchestra - and Sherlock - began to play.  Somber tones carried above the rest, melody infused with life, a living and breathing song of beauty and vibrancy.  John knew the piece well enough to sense and watch the finer moments, when the violin melody would begin the solo, with Sherlock’s arm and bow extended, fingers flying, curls bouncing, his hair looking even more burgundy in the lighting.  He watched Dr. Perry, mostly, who carefully led the piece, evaluating Sherlock with critical eye.  It was almost unnecessary, John felt, such was the skill of both soloist and orchestra.  When his eyes weren’t on the conductor, Sherlock watched over his shoulder, taking in the uniform bowing motions of the orchestra, keeping perfect time, expressive, and rarely considering the music in front of him.

The piece ended, the musicians on stage actually applauded him, a wolf-whistle thrown in for good measure, which, John knew would never happen during a performance.  The orchestra would likely applaud lightly with their feet during the concert, if at all, as typical practice.  Dr. Perry, in order to ensure adequate preparation, turned toward the imaginary audience, bowed, then gestured low, bowing again, to Sherlock.  The grin was such as the one reserved for very rare occasions, and he returned the formal inclination.  Dr. Perry indicated again, and Sherlock, seeking direction, cocked an inquisitive head at the stand, received the slightest nod, and he then picked up stand and carried it off along with his confident regal bearing, into the wings.  John met him at the stage edge as the orchestra launched the next piece.

Neither man was known for displaying affection in public, but John leaned toward him, taking chin in hand, briefly meeting lips together.  Sherlock’s face was flushed, eyes bright, clutching instrument and bow.  John let him bask a moment, then said, “Absolutely. Stunning.”  

They drew apart, and the grin didn’t leave as Sherlock chewed his lower lip, acknowledging the compliment.  “Fun for sure.  There is one terrible thing, though, that you should have considered.”  His tone made John pause.  “You cashed in your favour for this.  A very bad call on your part.”  His voice, low and sultry, continued, “I would have done it anyway, had you asked.”

John nodded, swallowing.   _We’ll just see if you still feel that way later_ , he thought.

John had procured a block of seats stage right, leaving an aisle seat open for Sherlock to sneak into when his performance was over and he was able to join them.  Mycroft, Molly, Greg, and Mrs. Hudson were all present, as well, in his row or directly behind.  They trickled in, mostly in formal dress, except for Anderson and Donovan, who were technically on duty but had wrangled a bit of coverage in order to be there.  A few others from the Yard arrived, too, and a few of Mrs. Hudson’s acquaintances.  Shortly before noon, the lights flickered, an anticipatory warning, and the seats filled up.  John knew several busloads of students from area universities were expected, and he noticed at least two senior groups from central London.  All in all, the performing arts center was very full.  Matinees, as Dr. Perry had warned him, were typically less formal but near capacity, as opposed to the late afternoon showing, which was less crowded, and then the evening performance, which was much more formal, catering to the rich, royal, or famous.

The curtain drew back, finally, lights having flickered and then dimmed to nearly off, but not before John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s expression, amused and slightly chagrined, at the size of the crowd.  He tugged slightly at the jacket of the tuxedo as his cheeks colored a bit.

First piece went off without a hitch, and the second, well, in John’s opinion, it was sheer and utter perfection.  He was beyond handsome, John thought even watching him on stage, under public scrutiny, and his beauty became part of the music, twining form and notes and something ethereal as the blend of all instruments became one, with his solo lines prominently singing out over all.  The piece ended, rich overtones and fully harmonized undertones resonating, bows held in position, and then, eventually, there was applause.  There was a standing ovation, unusual mid-concert.  Dr. Perry gestured wide at Sherlock, as in rehearsal, indicated the orchestra, and the applause wouldn’t quit.  He left the stage briefly, returned, the applause crescendoing, and Sherlock stood, not quite beaming but quietly pleased and at peace.  He finally, after another nod from Dr. Perry, bowed politely to the audience, nodded to the concertmaster and the orchestra, and eased off stage right.

Mycroft was next to John, shocked.  As they joined the rest of the audience taking their seats, he was shaking his head.  “I knew he was good, but had no idea.  None whatsoever.”  His amazed expression took in John’s quietly pleased smile.  “How on earth did you get him to participate?”

John’s lips twitched, considering his words carefully as the next piece began.  “Let’s just say I cashed in a favour.”

Sherlock slid into the empty seat during the applause after the next piece ended.  He was all smiles as he leaned close to John, muttered, “Glad no one actually comes to a matinee performance.”  John held his tongue.  “You knew, too, didn’t you, it would be capacity?”  He shrugged helplessly as Mycroft leaned forward, nodded his head slightly to his brother, no words exchanged, and then sat back.

After, there was quite a gathering around Sherlock, between friends, Mycroft, random music aficionados, and some of the higher-level university students and faculty.  John hung back, taking it all in, feeling the enormity of the event and reveling in Sherlock’s professionalism and accomplishment.  Clearly, he enjoyed the attention related to the excellence and proficiency.

John had briefly considered inviting a few people back to their flat for a drink, decided to fly off the cuff if either he or Sherlock were interested.  But after a few minutes of watching Sherlock’s entourage gathered around him, John figured out the answer - his limits of good behaviour, of socially acceptable public interaction, was just about stretched as thin as it could get.

He took a few steps toward the group, timing his approach to a lull in well-wishes and the occasional stranger who popped over to congratulate him.  “Hate to interrupt, but we have reservations, if you’re through...?”

There was a look of gratitude in the gray-blue eyes that swiveled to set on John’s own.  His sigh was just short of believable, and Mycroft let out a quiet snort when Sherlock glanced at his watch and said, “I suppose, if we must.”

The two men exited the building, one with a violin tucked under his arm, the other helpfully holding a black leather music folder.  A cab approached, and they climbed in.  “Reservations?” Sherlock queried.

“Not so much.  An escape, really.”  He placed a warm hand over Sherlock’s wrist there in the back of the cab.  “You were wonderful today.  And we can make reservations, if you want.  Your choice.”

His eyes grew more focused, intense, as he looked steadily at John.  “Dinner sounds like a great idea.  I can think of no better foreplay before another fabulous performance tonight.”

John had to look away, his throat thick in anticipation.  “Oh god help me.”

“I’m pretty sure I can make you say that louder, you realise.”

And, after a meal out in one of their favourite haunts, Sherlock did exactly that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love the Vivaldi piece that is mentioned. I can imagine almost no circumstance where a professional orchestra would allow an amateur guest to do something like this, but once the idea started bouncing around, I enjoyed it too much not to write it anyway. So heartfelt apologies to anyone who just plain bristled at the obvious fictional event. The conductor is modeled after an actual University Department Chair and Symphony Orchestra Conductor extraordinaire, and is a wonderful role model and all around good egg. And unknowingly donated his name to this chapter. Thank you Dr. Perry.


	2. Practice Makes Perfect

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some skills people seem to just be born with, and others are learned through education and experience. John and Sherlock seem to have some interesting skills. John went to med school - I'm not sure where Sherlock learned his unusual talent.

John’s long shift in the ICU unfortunately ended with several necessary phone calls after dinner, and eventually, he shut the mobile off and blew out a long breath.  “Sorry.  Goes with the territory sometimes.”

Sherlock had actually cleared the plates, and was waiting.  “I know.  Not a big deal.”  When John realised he had something on his mind, his radar activated and he sat forward.  Unfortunately, it was not time, apparently, to drop his defenses.  Sherlock’s expression was one of scrutiny, and he smirked when he saw John’s vigilance.  “So I've been meaning to ask you,” Sherlock said, “a while back, you talked about a safeword.”

“Mm-hmm.  So?”  John tasted the coffee, found it disgustingly cold, set it down.  Surprising, really, Sherlock thought, because he found that most medical professionals like John have an amazing tolerance for sub-par food or beverage, coffee in particular.  John turned his attention fully to Sherlock, his brain on alert, his autonomic nervous system sounding a system wide  _Battlestations!_

“Bizarre question for the circumstance.  Safeword completely and totally unnecessary.  Ridiculous, even.  Obviously I could get out, no question.  So you brought it up for some other reason.”  John made sure to carefully guard his expression.  “So perhaps it is because you are the most considerate person on the planet  - but that is ridiculous, trust me, you are not.  You can be arrogant and selfish and a few other inconsiderate traits, so that's not exactly it.”  John grinned, gesturing back at his flatmate, and Sherlock was right there with him as he continued, “Yes, I know.  Also describing myself.”

“Or-?” John tried to adopt his most amused expression.

“Or you have a history that required the use of a safeword.”  

“Those are the _only_ two options in that brain of yours?”

An eye narrowed at him, and John felt the slightest surge of anxiety.  Sherlock seemed to tread lightly as he said, “We've never really talked about previous relationships.”

“And I'm not feeling particularly inclined to do so tonight either.”  John willed the pounding in his chest to ease, settle.  A few deep breaths helped, and he continued.  “Don’t read too much into it.”

Sherlock ignored that, of course, and continued, "So it is a previous relationship... you have _baggage_.”  The word was slowly enunciated, consonants harsh.  He looked at John steadily, eyes bright.  “Someone in the military.”

“Remember shortly after the ‘safeword’ conversation, we talked about limits, about anything that might be off-limits?”  When Sherlock nodded, John continued, quietly, a seriousness to his tone that he saved for just the right occasion.  “This is approaching one of mine.”

Sherlock was quiet, tilted his head, pursed his lips, and for the next few minutes, was deep in unhappy thoughts.  And then, as John’s mind was again taken up by the journal he’d been reading, Sherlock stood up, and John could tell he was headed out.  No destination except getting away from the flat.

John stood up quickly, too, body language ready for battle.  “Is leaving because of a small disagreement really the only option here?”  

A steely blue gaze looked back at him.  “Perhaps.”

“Think again.”  John inwardly questioned again the problem-solving dichotomy of his partner.  He could deduce bits and pieces about almost anyone just by observing their behavior or appearance.  He could unravel the tangled chaos of a crime scene mess and weave together factual events, but when faced with the problem of not getting his bloody way, he regressed to toddler-hood.

“You’re being unreasonable.”

“And you’re not?”  John shrugged.  “I hate to be the one to tell you to grow up, but I’m going to say it anyway.  _Grow up_.  Adults can agree to disagree and manage to survive.  I’m not contractually obligated to disclose everything, and neither are you.  There'll be a time and place for it, I'm sure.”  Something in Sherlock softened a bit, and John was pleased to see that, for once, he’d perhaps listened to reason, decided to turn up the heat.  “It adds to the mystery, you know.  And you’re very good with puzzles.”

John reached out a hand, brushed it against Sherlock’s face, letting his thumb pass across the bow of his lip.  The skin contact was warm and tingly.  Then, fairly certain Sherlock would follow, John turned and directed his steps into the bedroom.

“I still think you’re being unreasonable,” Sherlock muttered, and John shot a glance at him, unsurprised to find childish petulance on his face.

“At least I’m consistent.  You thought my suggestion of a safeword was unreasonable.  You think my rules are unreasonable.”  John pulled on pyjama pants, shrugged.  “I’ve been called much worse than unreasonable.”

“You know what else is unreasonable?”  Sherlock asked, his tone lower and calmer.  He waited until John looked over at him, slightly exasperated.  There was a pause, a slight crook of the eyebrow, and he gestured wide with his arms spread, as if awaiting Sherlock’s scathing insult or complaint.  “You, wearing pyjama pants when I’m just going to get inside them anyway.”

John rubbed tired hands over his face, chuckling on the inside.  His flatmate was nothing if not keeping him on his toes.  “If you insist...” he sighed, acting as if he’d just been asked to donate a kidney.  "I'm nothing if not a _reasonable_ person."

Sherlock's arms drew around him, and they ended up pressed together on the bed.  His mouth - hot, hungry, frustrated - found John's mouth, nipped lightly at his lip, forced his tongue inside, expressing exactly his intentions.  "Yeah, not so much."

++

The case began innocently enough, in typical fashion with Lestrade’s text.  There was a chase through a dark alley, ending up with the criminal jumping into a vehicle.  John, Sherlock, and Lestrade followed in a police cruiser.  Ultimately they ended up finding the abandoned vehicle, Lestrade radioed their location, and they stood outside the car for a few minutes getting oriented.  They were in the outskirts of town, it was deserted, silent, and the three of them stood in absolute quiet, listening.  Clear skies and a rather bright moon cast silver-ness across the area, and as their night vision sharpened, it became much easier to see.  There was an outbuilding, and by nature of nothing else visible under the moonlight, they proceeded to it.  It was a small bilevel, large oversized open sided barn with hayloft, ladder, deserted of animal and human occupancy, or so it seemed.  Sitting vacant, it had the staleness of a building unused and abandoned.  Lestrade pointed up the ladder, gestured the other two to wait, and climbed up.  There was definitely a short burst of muffled scuffling, followed by a yell as Lestrade might have drawn his weapon then pursued the miscreant.  There was a bit of falling hay, footsteps, and then a slip from the hayloft, Lestrade having attempted to keep them both from plummeting over the edge but momentum from the other carried them off the raised loft.  And as they tumbled, Lestrade unfortunately came down hard, while the other man scrambled to his feet and made haste for the open wall.  He failed to take into account the agility of the long-legged Sherlock, who leapt in that direction and perfected a double-leg takedown, both men hitting the rough floorboards with an exhaled “oof”.  John assured himself that Sherlock had criminal well in hand, actually with a knee pushed down terribly hard into lumbar spine, dragging arms behind center of back, and went to check on the now moaning form of Lestrade.

“He’s got him, then?” Greg said tightly, through gritted teeth.

“Looks so.  Tying up now,” he said, seeing Sherlock appropriating a piece of bailing twine.  John eyed the form of Lestrade, seeing even in the partially lit barn that he was slightly misshapen and in a great deal of pain.  “Shoulder?”

“God,” he breathed, attempting to shift around and obviously increasing in distress.  “Yes, _ohmygod_.” 

He was laying mostly prone, angled with a leg drawn up.  A brief feathery touch of John’s hands discovered the joint out of alignment.  His humoral process was over the scapula, and John sighed in commiseration.  “You ever dislocate before?”  Greg shook his head.  John tucked the non-injured arm straight down along his side, tipped him so that he was truly side-lying.  Even trying to achieve proper body alignment was generating rather apparent agony.  John hissed out a brief “sorry, mate.”

Sherlock was watching, having tied wrists of the now-stationary man and looped his ankles together as well.  “Want help?”

John further assessed the injury, answering, "Not just yet."   Lestrade had every right to be in agony, John realised, noting how far out of joint the humerus was.  “Deep breath,” he said, and as soon as Greg complied, he rolled him again so he was on his back.  A soft guttural, inhuman moan came out then, and John slid skilled fingers lightly over the area.  “No surgery ever on this joint?” he asked, easing the affected arm just slightly away from his body, maintaining alignment and considering a few options.  He’d reset, reseated, and reduced a fair number of dislocations in Afghanistan, some with sedation but unfortunately, many without.  Transporting him to the A&E in this condition would be quite a miserable experience for all of them.  Best get on with it, then, he reasoned, long as Greg was amenable.

“Sherlock?”  John knelt, removed his own shirt, leaving only his vest, as Sherlock came over, initially keeping an eye on the hog-tied man on the floor, finding him testing the bindings but unable to do more than shimmy slightly.

“I hardly think here is the place, John,” he quipped.

Lestrade looked up at them and moaned, “Oh God, just shoot me now.”

John ignored them both, sliding his shirt around Lestrade’s body under the axilla of the injured shoulder, one length across his chest, the other behind him, a horseshoe sling of sorts.  He handed both sleeves to Sherlock, pointing at where he was to place himself.  His shirt would provide counter-traction as John would reduce the dislocation of the joint.

Greg looked rather frightened, a mask of pain etched around his eyes, as he watched John and figured out what was coming.  “None of this looks enjoyable.”

“We can put this back in.  Your other option is to ride in the police car or wait for an ambulance and ride in that to the A&E.”  John let that sink in, wanting Greg to agree to it, to trust him.  “Your call.”

“Fine.  Just get this over with.”  Tension was written all over him, the set of his face, chest, arms, tight breathing.

John knelt at his side, easing the injured arm out perpendicular to Lestrade’s body.  He stifled the moan with great effort, jaw clenched, eyes closed.  John got into Greg’s line of sight as much as he was able.  “Open your eyes, we’re going to help you.”  He waited until Greg looked at him, smiled confidently down at him.  “I can help you, done this quite a bit.  It’s nice when we can use muscle relaxants but I left them in my other jacket tonight.”  Sherlock watched, intrigued, as John continued to talk just a bit, capturing Greg’s attention and focus.  John slid Greg’s arm upward just a bit as he spoke, and, while Greg grimaced, he did not resist.  “So, on my say so, a countdown, when I get to ‘one,’ you’re going to breathe out, go absolutely boneless, relax every muscle, let me have your arm when I say ‘zero.’  Sherlock’s going to hold that way, just gently, and I’m going to bring your arm back into the shoulder joint, okay?”  Greg muttered a curse, and Sherlock could see that he was going to have a difficult time relaxing.  John looked over, met Sherlock’s eyes, gestured in the trajectory of where he was to offer counter-pressure with the fabric, holding Greg more or less so that John could work.

John considered the dress shirt Lestrade was wearing, then grabbed it under the cuff, ripped it with a long, satisfying shred up to the armpit, where it caught.  “Hey, this was one of my fav--” he started, until Sherlock interjected.

“Oh, please, he,” he said, inclining his head at the man tied on the floor, “can certainly afford to buy you another one, with all the stolen property he’s been accumulating and re-selling.”  When the man protested, Sherlock looked over, glared, snapped, “Oh, shut it.”

John looked across at Sherlock, gesturing the angles they would pull at.  “Opposing forces here, okay?  On my countdown.”  Sherlock nodded, wrapped the ties around his wrists.  Nodding approval, John looked back down at Greg as he maneuvered himself off to the side.  “I did this once in a ditch in Afghanistan, overturned vehicle, just me and him and a band of Taliban coming over the ridge.  He did his own counter-traction.  Good to go, then?”  John got in Greg’s line of vision.  “You can do this, hurts like a bitch, I know, but once it’s reduced, you’ll get some relief.  Watch me,” John said, and waited until Greg opened his eyes and settled his gaze on John, trusting.  “On my count.  Three...”  And when John got to one, Greg exhaled, allowed muscles to relax while Sherlock pulled and, on zero, John eased the subluxed joint out and away at an angle.  But the offending limb tightened up despite Greg’s efforts and loud groan of exquisite agony, and John immediately stopped, leaned back on his heels.  He met Sherlock’s concerned eyes.  “Feels like we’re doing the wishbone of a turkey, eh?”

Greg’s eyes were closed, but he muttered, “Still in the room guys.   _Fuck_.”

“Okay, bit tighter than I thought.  This time's the charm.”  John pressed on.  “Going to pull a bit more, but now, Sherlock, grab that post there, so I can get more leverage.  We were almost there.”  Sherlock was glad Greg’s eyes were closed as to miss the look of dubious concern that passed between them.

John gestured a slight change in angle they would be pulling without words, then said quietly, “Eyes open, you can do this, on one exhale, on zero let me have your arm, both shoulders, and chest okay?  Think boneless - no muscle.  On my say so, three...”  This effort, Sherlock realised how much John had held back the first time, as the steady pull was much stronger, and he tightened his hold.  Greg let out a moan that previously John would have associated with the crowning process of birth - until Afghanistan, anyway, when he realised that pain was pain and any person could be humbled to a moaning mass at any time.  It was tight, almost there.  John pulled, rotating the limb slightly, sweat breaking across his brow - Greg was already long since sweaty - as he laboured.  “Breathe out, slow,” he coached.  “Give me your shoulder, you can do this.”  

Sherlock had to shift his grip in order to maintain it, and he watched John’s muscles ripple through the tee shirt, noticing perhaps at an inopportune time that there was brute strength that John didn’t often flaunt.  There was audible crunching and shifting of ligaments deep within the joint, and John felt voluntary muscle tightening as the bone end approached the tipping point.  “No,” he ordered, “give over, breathe out,” and with that, Greg forced an exhale again and the deeply harsh clicking was nearly nauseating as the ball sucked back into the socket with a meaty crunching.  John nodded at Sherlock to ease up slightly, while he kept tension on the arm.

Greg was deathly still on the floor, eyes closed.  “Breathe, mate,” John instructed, his hand feathering lightly over deltoid process and up over the scapula to confirm.  “It’s in.”  

John left Greg alone on the floor as he caught his breath and the pain eased up somewhat.  A distant rumble of an approaching car was audible, and before long there were headlights illuminating the foursome in the barn.  Carefully, working as to not make things more uncomfortable, John helped Greg sit upright while showing him to both support and protect the injured arm with his other, while John fashioned a makeshift sling out of the shirt they’d already put to use.  Additional backup arrived from the yard, sirens ringing loud in the quiet night, and by the time the criminal was loaded in the back of the police cruiser, Greg was sitting upright speaking coherent sentences.  His face was still a tight mask of pain, but he was improving.

Sherlock informed the remaining officer in the building that the stolen property had likely been hidden in the loft.  They didn’t remain any longer, and John, Sherlock, and Greg shared a vehicle transport to the A&E.  Before long, Greg was whisked away for an xray that confirmed proper reduction of the dislocation and the extensive soft tissue injury, but no fracture.  The tech brought a sling to the room and John stood back while both Greg and the tech, who must have been a new hire, attempted to figure out the complicated strap configuration of the immobilizer.

Sherlock stepped closer, saying rather loudly to John, “We could leave, they’ll never miss us, and will be here at least another half hour if you don’t remedy this incomp - “

John stepped lightly on Sherlock’s foot, shutting him up before he finished the insult.  He approached, said kindly, “You want some help with that?”  John opened the velcro, helped place it properly, and re-seated the straps for both function and comfort.

Greg’s wife arrived as the sling was fastened and adjusted to the satisfaction of all of them, and the roomful of adventurers dispersed.

Back at Baker Street, John appreciated the silence of the sitting room, sat down, his posture atrocious as he crossed his legs at the ankles and closed his eyes.  The case, the caring, the responsibility had been thrilling - and now that it was over, he was bloody knackered.

Sherlock asked, “You ok?”

“Of course.”  John rubbed tired hands over his face but didn’t move too much.  “I think this was the first time I’ve ever asked you to do something that you didn’t either ignore or argue about.”  Sherlock, obviously, was already looking to argue about John’s statement but wisely let the grin speak for itself.  “I appreciate it.  I could not have done that without you.”

“Are shoulders always that difficult to get back in place?”

“No.  Usually the patient is sedated and it’s not so hard when they’re relaxed and groggy.  That dislocation was the more difficult kind, and it was unfortunate we needed to try twice - meds would have been so helpful.   I’ve rarely put one back that was that bad without sedation.”  John toed off his boots, sat back, rested his eyes.  “Anyway, thank you.”

“I can definitely think of better ways to work up a sweat.”

“Agreed.”

“Except that tonight you seem a bit overtired.”  Sherlock was still standing, keyed up, watching John’s still form.  “Too much bossing people around, I’d say.”

John’s eyes opened, then, and he snickered, seeing his flatmate practically emanating restless animal energy, pacing, looking to instigate.  “I have a little energy left, if you’re up to following a few orders.”

Sherlock held a steady gaze.  “I might be interested.”  

John’s brow raised, then, however, and the tone of his voice changed.  “I think, tonight, then, since I’m going to be the one issuing orders, that you can start off, mate, naked.  On your knees, in the bedroom.  I’ll be right behind you.”  John was pleased to watch Sherlock’s aroused expression at the double entendre,  and he rose almost immediately, obediently.  He gave him a few moments, then sat forward, his brain engaged.  He stood, picked up his shoes, his feet making quiet sounds as he approached the bedroom.

Sherlock was waiting, just as John had instructed.  His hands were loosely at his sides, as if awaiting to be told what to do.  His eyes, John noticed, were dark, pupils dilated.  The lamp on the dresser softly illuminated the room.  The duvet had been whisked down, and Sherlock was facing the door, there on his knees.  It seemed to John that both the room, the bed, and the man were eagerly awaiting his arrival.  A surge of anticipatory pleasure thrummed through him, settling in his groin.  He stripped quickly, casually, as Sherlock watched his every movement.

John approached, watching Sherlock’s stillness and knowing it was a challenge for him.  He slid a hand along Sherlock’s jaw and into the curls.  “I think you might have an idea what to do with this,” he said softly, lowering the zip.  Sherlock’s mouth opened right at the level of John’s groin.  A few moments of moist hot tongue had John’s knees shaking.  A few words of encouragement - ' _oh yeah', 'bloody fantastic'_ , and a breathless hiss of ‘ _ohmygod_ ’ - had Sherlock humming with desperation.  John recalled that he was supposed to be issuing orders, and a few other phrases emerged:  “On the bed with you,” “Use your hands,” “Harder,” and “Stop before I...”   After the tangle of bodies ended up nose-to-nose on the bed, the only other order John issued before coherent thought left was, “Come for me!”  He needn’t have spoken - that was happening with or without the order.

++

The following week, there was a Med Exec meeting, and John found himself summoned to the conference room and offered the position of Lead Intensivist.  John was not surprised to find Sherlock in the room, again, leaning silently against the wall.  John asked a few questions and agreed to consider it, thanked them for the offer.  He accepted the position the next day, signed the contract, and spent entirely too many hours with a subcommittee discussing schedule, the hiring process, and administrative considerations.  But the final schedule was extremely satisfactory, with 4 physicians working alternating shifts, eliminating completely the midnight to six am coverage based on John’s recommendations and the tedious tracking they’d done of calls, volumes, acuity, and services rendered overnight.  Ultimately John would end up with ten hour day shifts, plus some admin time.  

Part of the acceptance package and contract included a seminar in Oxford, and John, along with many of the department heads, a few chairs from the Med Exec board, and chief administrators were expected to attend.  The accompanying literature on the conference detailed the seminars offered, and specified that if there was a travelling companion, just to let the administrative secretary know.  John brought home the trip information with him, and mentioned it to Sherlock after dinner.  They’d gone out again to eat, neither of them had much energy do to anything else food-wise in the flat.  Sherlock had been assisting Lestrade on some smaller open files at the Met most of the past week, and was either frustrated or restless, John couldn’t be sure.

“So how about a getaway?”  When Sherlock was stock-still and silent, John explained further, that there was a conference, and he tossed the brochure across the table.  “Do you want to go with me?”

There was a pause.  “Are you sure?”  Something about Sherlock’s hesitancy gave John a bit of concern.

“They go every year, guests are fine, we will have a couple evenings.  Might just break up the monotony for you.”  They settled the cheque and John pressed the subject.  “Look, it’s an annual conference.  And it’ll be a nice time to be seen together, casual.  I hear the facilities are great.  And Oxford, best med school around, so you might even find some of the programming worth it.  Or you could try to sneak into the morgue or something.”

Sherlock agreed, but his reluctance made John suspicious.  The secretary that handled the rooms and details simply nodded when John gave the name of his traveling companion.  A thought occurred to him then, an epiphany, there in the office, and John remarked, “He went along last year, right?”

“Oh, of course.  With Dr. Hodges.”  Hmmm.  John had heard only bits and pieces about Dr. Hodges, mostly gossip or stray comment from the staff, and wished now that he’d paid more attention.She said she seemed to recall a problem with some of the rooms last year, something about water damage, was sketchy on the details.  John knew it would be rather easy to fill in the gaps from that starting point.

John thanked her for taking care of all those details.  Hmmmm, indeed.  A few casual conversations throughout the rest of the day John found to be rather enlightening.

Later that night he mentioned in passing that their accommodations were all taken care of, and told Sherlock that he was looking forward to the few days away.  He shook the newspaper he was reading, then, keenly aware of the discomfort of his flatmate and now that he understood it, he tightened the screws.  “It’s been a few years since I’ve been to an actual educational conference.  Military training held in a tent in the sandstorms don’t count.  How about you?  Ever been to Oxford?”

“Conference should be a great time.”  John narrowed his eyes at the non-response, puzzled.

++

The cab they hired was abysmally slow, and they felt like they could have gotten a walking tour just from spending so much time along the main, congested road.  There were many eateries, cafe’s, antique stores, pubs, and shoppes, none of which Sherlock was interested in the least.  John thought, perhaps, the coffee shops nearest the hotel might be crowded, so coming a few additional blocks to an out of the way place might be worth it.  Despite the heavy traffic, they were still among the first to arrive, and John ran into a former colleague he hadn’t seen since residency, which facilitated a nice way to have a drink and pass some time until the programme started.  At check-in, the receptionist commented they would certainly enjoy the suite they were assigned. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow with a slightly concerned expression, but nothing further was said, and they deposited bags quickly inside.  Both of them were a touch uneasy, for completely differing reasons, so when John suggested heading back down to the bar, Sherlock agreed readily.  John smiled but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Striking up conversation was never difficult for either, and before long there was animated discussion of the city, a few local newsworthy events, and then one of the CEO’s from the local Oxford hospital arrived.  He greeted both John and Sherlock, and said to Sherlock, “Great to have you back this year.  Hopefully less excitement in the hotel, yeah?”

Sherlock paled, seemed ready to bolt, but John was ready for him, and put his shoe down over Sherlock’s as he said, “Oh, yes, he was telling me about that on the way, the burst water pipe?”  

The CEO laughed at the recollection.  “Bit of a 7th floor flood as I recall.”  Sherlock wasn’t laughing, much, a pained smile on his face.  

The subject changed, then, as another group came up, and conversation diverted a whole new direction, and the group moved on, leaving John and Sherlock for a brief moment.  There was an opening session beginning shortly, and almost a whole wall opened up then, ushering attendees into the adjoining ball room.

The gaze that John shot at Sherlock was mostly disappointment.  He rose, stood back while Sherlock also got up, oddly pensive.  They joined the roomful of people, sat through the session.  It was interesting, promising a weekend of enlightenment and presentation of some of the leading new data on programs across the continent.  When it ended, John sought out the Intensivist leader, introduced himself.  The man, to John’s surprise, had already heard of him, and they chatted for a few.  Sherlock was present, and when John introduced him, the speaker smiled in remembrance.  “Oh, yes, last year, wasn’t that your group who ordered the singing telegram at the closing session?”  That was one of the stories John hadn’t been regaled with, but he was not surprised, and laughed along with them even as Sherlock flatly denied responsibility.  His non-sincere laughter, while social enough, was certainly noted by his flatmate, who was rather stiff, tension evident in his carriage.

Later, after what John hoped was an appropriate amount of time for small-talk, he excused himself, nodding to those standing there.  He tipped his head toward Sherlock, and exited the posh hotel bar.  Sherlock waited a few minutes and then followed.  John was standing in the lobby, eyes dark, waiting.  Sherlock opened his mouth, but John silenced him with a look, and crossed the lobby toward the street exit.

Once outside, they walk a few blocks in uncomfortable quietness until the street was mostly deserted, and there were definitely no conference attendees in the vicinity.  John, with no hesitation, turned toward Sherlock and said, “Is this a big game to you, then?”  There was ice in his words.  He took a steadying, calming breath as a few straggling pedestrians passed by, and a lone cab stopped, took fares, moved on.  “Come on, then.”

Sherlock shrugged.  No words were necessary yet.  By silent agreement, they walked a bit farther, silently, and entered one of the little cafes that was still open, and found a table.  The lighting was dim, quiet, calm.  After the session, the stress, and the walk, it was nice to sit down, John thought, away from the hotel.  The waitress brought them both water, secured their order, delivered two decafs, and left them alone.

John began, his voice quiet, Sherlock attentive, both of them with relaxed postures although neither of them felt it.  Without preamble, John spoke.  “So in the military, my last relationship, with Erik, had a bit of a bondage kink.  Started simple and harmless enough, actually was rather fun, but it progressed.  Started to get weird.  He started getting very interested in asphyxiation.  I wouldn’t do it, safeword or no - safe _gesture_ , I guess that would have been anyway - and, well, I ended it.”  John filled in some of the holes, describing the horror of the whole army doctor experience that was mitigated by the stability of a relationship.  They’d been involved for just under a year by the time the issue separated them.  “He’d been a medic corpsman.  Great guy, very skilled.  Liked the front line, the danger.  After things... ended for us, he signed up for EOD.”

John looked up then to see if Sherlock knew of explosive ordnance disposal, and he was nodding, listening seriously and calmly.  Slightly nauseous, John continued.  “He responded to a bad call, timer about to go, the decision really should have been to clear the area, evacuate.  He rushed in, didn’t have the right gear, not enough back up.  The explosion took out an entire small street block, the CO said, along with the rest of his search team.  Never really found his body except for the dog tags.”  John vividly recalled the moment he'd found out, exactly where he was and what he was doing.  "I didn't mention it to you for any other reason except that it bloody hurts.  I regret so many things...  He didn't deserve what happened, and maybe..."  John let that thought trail off, sipped the cooling coffee, watching Sherlock.

When Sherlock was silent, brooding, unreadable, John continued.  “Before that, I had a nice relationship with Eleanor through much of med school.  We lived together for a year or so before I realized my bisexuality.  She wasn’t okay with that, and we parted amicably.  Casual flings in uni, a few in high school. And that’s the extent of my baggage, and relationships.  Until I met you.”  When Sherlock was still quiet, John sighed, with a trace of annoyance.  “Maybe we’re more casual than I thought, seeing as how you didn’t fucking say anything to me about this getaway last year.  Or about Hodges.  If this is a game to you, I’m not sure I'm fucking interested in playing.” 

“It wasn't ever a game.”  Sherlock found eye contact entirely uncomfortable, looked away after a brief attempt.   

John waited until it seemed that Sherlock clearly had nothing additional to say.  "Perhaps this was your perverse way to get even for my not ... revealing everything earlier to you, but I'd hoped you were more mature than that."  He sighed, ran his hand along the back of his neck, feeling the tension there.  "So there you have it.  The brief and sordid history of John.  Not much of a puzzle in the end."

Sherlock seemed to be weighing his words.  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you about last year.  So I have a past, surely you’ve known that, too.  And it feels like you set me up, seeing as how you knew before we came here.  What did you expect?”

John leaned in, said in a deadly calm voice, “You cannot blame me for _you_ keeping a secret.  The fact that I found out about it is not relevant.”

“You’re making more of this that it needs to be.  It was unimportant to me.”

“Then why hide it?  Obviously it would come up while we’re here.  And pretty fucking inconsiderate to me, considering that it was very likely I would hear something while we are here.  I do have to work with some of these people, you know."  Sherlock looked away as John drove the point home.  “Plus, you’re not particularly afraid of anything.  You mostly don’t care what people think.”  John touched Sherlock’s shoe with his boot.  “I thought _we_ ,” he said, emphasising and gesturing between them, “were better than that.  And deserve better than that.”  Sensing the conversation was ending, John breathed deep, looked away, then returned his gaze to find Sherlock watching him.  "If there are other stories that are going to come out, now would be a bloody fantastic time to fess up.  Less embarrassing for both of us."

"There's nothing else."  Sherlock stood, then, quiet, took a step toward the door, then hesitated long enough to look John in the eye and utter one word:  “Sorry.”

John waited long enough to ensure he was really gone, then exhaled.  His coffee was nearly gone, and while he took that final sip, his mobile buzzed.

**“See you back at the room later?  SH”**

John, his mind a step ahead, was expecting that and mildly suspicious.   **“I’ll be along eventually.  Don’t wait up.”  JW**

The most likely scenario, he figured, was that Sherlock had stopped somewhere along the way and was plotting a rendezvous.  John pondered the alleys and bars along the way back, walking slowly, being mindful of being spotted through the windows.  He took notice of one pub that they’d passed on the way down, neither commented on but both had seen, the White Rabbit.  It was moderately full, dimly lit, with a smattering of patrons in various parts of the establishment.  There were a few disreputable looking young adults at the rear of the parking lot as he passed, obviously inebriated.  

Through the street window from a distance, John spied Sherlock perched on an end barstool.  He found a side entrance, slipped inside, approached the bar from the rear, rather incognito.  Sherlock was gone, however.  John wondered if he'd been spotted on the way in and he'd likely just have left through the front door.  The barkeep approached, and John ordered a draft.  The beer was cold, refreshing, and John enjoyed a few minutes of solitude as he sat.  The hair on the back of his neck prickled then, and he sensed as much as felt the presence of fingers attempting to relieve his wallet from front jacket pocket.  Sharp reflexes still there, John appreciated that he still had them, as he grabbed fingers and wrist of his pickpocket while spinning abruptly around, twisting the offending arm behind the other man's back and shoving the man up against the bar, squeezing fingers painfully tight around the knuckles.  "Not today, frie--" and then he spotted the dark curls.  " _Bloody hell,_ " he swore, releasing his grip.  " _Idiot_."

Sherlock was grinning while shaking the pain out of his fingers and arm.  "Oops."

"Trouble here?" the man behind the bar asked, watching carefully.

John sat back down, shaking his head at the bartender, who stood close, as he eyed Sherlock.  "Not your best effort, there."  He picked up his beer again.  "Here I was going to buy you a drink."

"You still can."  John waited while Sherlock ordered a glass of Glenlivet Reserve, which gave John pause and made the bartender hesitate as well.  He related the cost to John, who let out a quiet expletive of shock and amusement.  The barkeep waited until John looked at him.  “Okay?”

John glanced back over at Sherlock, who looked like the proverbial cat with canary feathers sticking out of his mouth, nodded, laughed, and said, “What the hell, make it two.”   _Why not?_   Sherlock took the seat at his elbow.  The barkeep, smiling, turned to fetch the bottle of scotch from the back room.

“I think I get to choose the sexual activity in return for the scotch.”  John pressed his leg against Sherlock's.

“I can’t be bought.”

“Everyone has a price.”

“I think your price might be information, not sex.”  This was said with a bit of an edge and included a snide glance to make sure the rudeness was conveyed.

John’s first inclination, had he been a brawler, might have been to throw a punch at the oaf next to him, such was the arrogant snippiness of the comment.  The drinks arrived then.  John ignored his until he had Sherlock’s attention again.  “You know, Sherlock, you accused me of making this a bigger deal than it ought to be.  If, as you told me, it was truly _that_ unimportant, then why the resistance?  I mean, just bloody _out with it_.”

Sherlock sipped and then toyed with his glass.

John had had about enough, said finally, “Fine.  You know, maybe coming here together was a bad idea.”  When there was still silence, John offered, “Do you want me to get you a ride back to Baker Street?”

"You want me to leave?"  That got Sherlock's attention, and he looked quickly at John, saw only a neutral expression, looked away again.

"Of course not."  John tapped his leg into Sherlock's.  "Might want to punch you in the face now and again.  But _no,_ " he stressed, "I don't want you to leave.  We have something good here."

Sherlock seemed to summon some resolve, some of it in expensive liquid form, started to talk.  “Chip Hodges was a casual sexual relationship, only lasted a few months.  He always viewed what we had as physical only.  Neither of us ever spent the night - this was the first time we did, here in the hotel.  He had a few other concurrent lovers, I knew, and he moved away.  Good riddance.  He meant very little.

“I was pretty inexperienced when I went off to uni.  Fell hard for Victor.  What I didn’t know was that I was only an experiment, a challenge to him.  There was some... well, he introduced me to cocaine and... some things got out of hand.  I was a little impaired one night, said too much to Mycroft.”  John watched Sherlock swallow hard, had an inkling of unease as he recalled Mycroft’s warning visit to him so long ago in the flat.  “Victor more or less _disappeared_.  I tell myself he was relocated somewhere, but...”  He looked at John, found only quiet interest in his expression, continued.  “After that, it was only casual, meaningless encounters, at clubs, mostly under the influence of something.  Had a recreational overdose once and woke up once in a rehab, Mycroft put me there, the bastard.”

John silently toasted Mycroft with his glass, sipped the smooth liquor again.  

Sherlock shook his head.  “He’s meddlesome, too much power, royal pain in my arse.”

"He may have done you a favor.  Removed some negative influence from your life, you know."  Sherlock's expression of disgust clearly came across then, to John's amusement.  "Remind me to buy him a drink when we get back to London."

Sherlock reached into his inner jacket pocket, pulled out a credit card.  "He can buy them for us now.  I nicked his card.  But thanks for being willing to buy me a drink."  

John downed his ridiculously expensive smooth drink, tapped the glass to get the barkeep's attention, ordered another round.  "Works for me.  But you better bloody make sure he knows this was your doing and not mine.  He seems a bit ... unpredictable and dangerous where your well-being is concerned."  The glasses were refilled, and a few moments went by, until John felt the whiskey loosening his tongue a bit.  "And, hey.  Thanks for telling me."  He waited until Sherlock acknowledged his statement with a brief nod.  "And I'm feeling generous.  You can choose how you want it tonight."

In response, Sherlock downed the whiskey in a single gulp of wasted scotch.  "Cheque please?" he murmured, tapping the edge of Mycroft's card on the bar.

The walk back toward the hotel was mostly quiet, although Sherlock did pick up on a few shady situations ready to happen that would have been slightly amusing had it not been such a late hour.  He wanted to step in and intervene but John advised that this was not London and they didn't have Lestrade to help if needed.  Before long, they stood at the room door and Sherlock commented on all the crimes in the city that were probably happening right that moment.  

"Like pickpocketers or something."  He waited until John looked over, skeptical.  "Talented ones."

John laughed then, a snippy condescending laugh.  He reached for his room key, not finding it, checked another pocket, commented, "Better at it than you were..."  

Sherlock was not quite grinning as he caught John's eye, holding up _two_ room keys, his and John's.  And John's mobile.  John's laughter died in his throat.  "Now what were you saying earlier, about my choice tonight?  I'm pretty good with my hands, you know, and I have a few things you might enjoy..."  Sherlock unlocked the door, they stepped inside, already feeling the shudder of desire and anticipation and _need_.  "And no worries, I can definitely make sure you feel it when I want you to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stay tuned, more adventures and resolution to follow.


	3. The Moment of Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are moments that stand out in a crisis, where a hand is forced, a decision made. These moments reveal a lot about a person's character.

Evenings on Baker Street occasionally found both men fatigued, shift work for the physician and odd sleeping hours for the other, with the cases occasionally occupying them both, mostly just Sherlock.  One such regular Tuesday night found them both nearly ready to turn in when John's phone sounded an alert.  There had been an incident at the hospital.  A bomb threat had been phoned in and the disaster chain has been activated.  John dressed quickly in scrubs, shouldered his bag, and told Sherlock he was heading to work.  Sherlock had already flipped the news on, and rose too.  “I'm going with you.”

“Actually, no you're not.”  John spoke clearly and carefully, anxious to leave.

“I can help.”

“Not by adding to the chaos of non-employees in an unsecured scene.”  He sighed, knowing Sherlock was never happy about feeling unnecessary.  “Look I'll call if we can work something out.  Or, more likely, Lestrade will need your help.”  Lestrade had fully recovered from his shoulder injury, and took the Baker Street residents out for drinks one evening to say thank you. That was far from anyone's mind, however, with this potentially dangerous situation. Sherlock was already firing off a text, and John was glad.  He would be of far more use on that realm of assistance.

John felt compelled to issue a cautionary, “Take care, be safe.  Stay in touch?”

"You too."  John paused at the door as the news coverage seemed to indicate the situation was already escalating, and there were sirens outside, presumably a few blocks away.  His phone alarmed again, the safety emergency alert blast pushed out to mobile phones. _Shelter in place_ was the message, and, ironically, as people were remanded to stay in their current locations, John headed down the steps, feeling already protective of the patients and staff who were already terribly vulnerable.  He jogged the few blocks to work, carrying only the necessities (and wearing his Kevlar and Browning, army training would never let him head into known volatility unprepared), and called the ICU charge nurse on the way.  The stress in her wavering voice was evident, but she informed him they were okay and will be glad to see him.

The ICU in lockdown was a terrible thing, as was any unit of any hospital with forced confinement, and particularly in an unstable environment, tensions could run hot at times.  All of London was probably a mess, however, John knew.  John picked up a mobile radio for best contact in case evacuation would be needed or if things became more volatile, and helped move patients as much as possible away from exterior windows.  Curtains were drawn.  The few visitors who were present at the time that the Shelter in place order came through, understandably, were edgy, nervous, restless.  Every room had some news station on the telly.

Some time later, the director of security appeared at the desk, requested John’s attention, and they spoke in hushed tones in the hall.  “There’s been an explosion across town, and reason to believe that there may be more.  Free up a few nurses and yourself, if possible, and head to the A&E.  Leave someone in charge with the radio in case you need to hustle back.”  The guard left the room, speaking calmly into the radio, exited out the back door.

John turned to the staff, calmly, matter-of-fact, and spoke evenly.  A few of them reported off, the problem solving skills of a critical care team prioritising well, and several of them accompanied John down the stairwell.  The Trauma Chief of the A&E saw them arrive, and delegated them immediately to the triage area, where there was a cluster of patients, some bloody, a few with obvious fractures, and more being ushered in.  The nurses went one direction as they were summoned to help one of the docs, and John surveyed the scene.  He would be most useful, he knew, at initial staging.  Army experience in a field hospital had prepared him to identify patients by their likelihood to survive and tagging appropriately.  

Mass trauma patients were typically tagged in three groups:  those likely to survive even without treatment (tagged in green, known as the walking wounded), those likely to die even with treatment (tagged in black), and those who needed treatment to survive (tagged in red).  The system worked well in battle when triaging many injured with limited resources.  John was pleased to at least see colored triage tags at the large bay doors.

The doctor already handling it was doing too much for patients instead of sorting them out for others.  John joined him, and they assessed a few of the more serious patients together, John assuming more of the leader role and explaining how this process best worked without being arrogant.  The more serious patients were taken directly to the surgical suite, a few waited for xrays, and others were filtered into the treatment bays for sutures and wound care.  Of the volume of patients brought in, there were a few DOA and one who was brought in just in time to turn from dusky to cyanotic to bloodless pale.  A brief abdominal assessment of rigid distention indicated to John that the patient had lacerated either liver or aorta and exsanguinated.

Another ambulance pulled in, and a stretcher wheeled over, one of the EMT’s mid-CPR while another gave John the briefest of reports.  “Crush injury, femurs on down, lost a pulse en route, no IV.”  Tourniquets had already been applied to minimize blood loss.

John helped pull the stretcher into the trauma bay, asked for an IO, and the other MD said, “John, his legs...”  The IO line, intraosseous and placed directly into bone, was used in the event no peripheral IV line could be placed.  Typical site for the IO line being the top of the tibial plateau, below the patella.  This patient had no usable legs for IO placement.

“Sternal,” John said, vividly remembering sand storms and turbans and young soldiers with limbs blown off.  Protocol in combat included several IO lines in the sternum, infusing several liters of crystalloid, and if the patient still had a pulse, they would be taken to surgery. 

The other doc on duty approached, looking at the body and the airway, compressions in progress, the color.  “We haven’t ever done that here, John.”

“I have, it’s that or he dies.  Get me the drill.”  John was matter of fact in his tone, and supplies were brought to him and opened.  Compressions continued, and John alerted the medic on the chest how they will coordinate their care so John could work with minimal interruption.

In quick motions, he prepped the chest, fired the drill, both feeling and hearing the needle meet hollow space.  Once the IO line was in, he ordered both fluids and O negative blood stat as he secured the angled needle.  One of the trauma staff handed him IV tubing, which he connected and then deftly inserted another IO on the opposite side of the sternum.  It was a timing miracle, really, interrupting CPR only briefly enough to cannulate bone and get out of the way.

IV fluids via pressure bag seemed to make a difference, and next break in compressions, one of the nurses felt a faint but palpable pulse.  The general surgeon was already present at the bedside, and over the next few minutes, labs were drawn, the unit of blood was hung, vital signs stabilized somewhat, and plans were underway to proceed to emergency surgery for life-saving, bilateral amputations.  John thanked those who had helped, stripped off his gloves, his eyes already in search of the next most urgent scenario.  His eyes paused as they landed on a bystander.  

Sherlock, his clothing dusty, was leaning against the wall in the A&E, watching, from just down the hallway.  Bloody scratches covered much of his hands and wrists.  Their eyes met, John’s questioning and Sherlock’s steady, and then Sherlock shrugged and looked away.

“Dr. Watson?”  One of the triage RNs called him, requesting assistance.  Over the next chaotic chunk of time, John treated more crush injuries, sent a few to the surgery and two to the morgue; those already dead should never have been brought through the A&E doors, but John knew these were things that will be evaluated post disaster.  He coordinated with the other Trauma Chief and as the injured were filtered into respective departments and holding areas, John excused himself.  The last wave of injured had been placed and, for the moment, no additional were arriving.  Deciding to head into the A&E bays, John located Sherlock, where he waited for one of the Met officers.  The shallow wounds on his hands were mostly crusted over and scabbed. 

“You all right?” he asked in low tones, lifting his hands to examine for injuries that needed treatment.

“Fine.”  They both looked up as a commotion down the hallway was punctuated by yelling and a staccato burst of thundering gunshots that echoed in the hallway.

One of the security guards was down, taken out with a shot to the chest, dark red blood stain spreading through his jacket.  John and Sherlock both watched the gunman scurry down a corridor and exit into a stairwell.  Another man lay moaning on the floor, a gunshot wound to the leg.

“Men down,” John spoke toward those in the intake/triage area, a few of them already moving toward them to help.  The injured guard spoke into his radio, his voice stressed, “Intruder on campus, stairwell eight, Main Wing by A&E, destination unknown.”  

The radio immediately chirped, “Roger that.”

John reached the down guard, squatting to assess for the pulse he already knew wasn't present.  The guard was already gone, his eyes open and unseeing, color pale as the puddle of blood underneath him spread into a crimson wave across the floor. Sherlock and two others approached the body, as John moved to the injured man, placing a hand on his shoulder as his eyes assessed injuries.  From across the patient, he met Sherlock’s eyes and watched as Sherlock stood.  He made eye contact with the other guard, who nodded.  They eased to the door, and slid into the stairwell.  

John helped place the injured on a backboard, not wanting to waste precious minutes to obtain a stretcher, and they proceeded back to the staging area of the A&E.  More wounded and injured had been brought in, and for a space of time John was too busy in the thick of unstable patients to pay much attention to whether another explosion occurred or if the gunman's whereabouts had been determined.  

An ambulance arrived, and John was summoned to the rear doors, but the victim was conscious, talking, so triage was appropriately relegated to the holding area.  John took that moment to scan the area with hyper alert eyes and happened to note movement across the courtyard, as the gunman exited one end of a connecting passageway.  His mind already engaging, John took the arm of one of the nurses, tersely directing her to send security _right bloody now_ to the exit he pointed at, and she nodded.  His feet were moving, stealthy, approaching from out of line of sight of the gunman.   Weapon in hand, the gunman poised by the door, as if awaiting the exit of someone in pursuit.  A sinking feeling knotted in John’s gut, he suppressed it, feeling for, and comforted by, the presence of his own weapon in his waistband. 

Still in motion, John watched as the door slowly opened again, and Sherlock emerged, only to be immediately grabbed from behind.  John stopped, drew his weapon.  They were close enough that John could see the veins standing out on Sherlock’s temple as he tried to wrench free.

“Stop right there,” John demanded.  Sherlock struggled briefly and the arm around his neck tightened further.  “Let him go.”

There was a standoff, the gunman holding Sherlock in a tight chokehold and aiming his weapon at John.  The man was shouting, and John noted the bloody handprints on the arm from Sherlock attempting to free himself.  The arm around Sherlock’s throat tightened, and John noted that Sherlock’s color was turning dusky.  He stopped struggling, but his eyes were fixed on John.

Many things happened simultaneously.  John would later be unable to recall if it happened lightning fast or in slow motion.

From the gunman behind his human shield: “Drop it or I'll shoot.”  

John had a split second decision to make, take the shot or not, lose his flatmate and probably his own life as well as the lives of many others.  John had been quite a marksman, but firing a gun was something he didn't do regularly any more.  Many thoughts burst like fireworks behind his eyes as his brain weighed simultaneously the appropriate course of action.  He would be aiming mere centimeters from Sherlock's head if he chose to shoot.

Two guns are fired and three bodies hit the grassy ground there outside the tunnel at the edge of the building.

++

Later, Lestrade got conflicting stories from all parties, from John, from Sherlock, and from the security officers, one of whom, at the direction of the nurse John had mobilised, arrived just before the shots were fired.  The guard behind Sherlock arrived apparently just afterward.  The sniper would be telling no tales from inside the body bag, dead of a fatal head shot that John claimed he didn’t precisely remember and Sherlock recalled feeling the bullet whizz by his ear.  The blood and gray matter that were spattered on Sherlock’s person and in his hair would corroborate that it was indeed at very close range. There was an abrasion on his cheek that all suspected was from bone fragment, but no one dared speak it out loud. According to Sherlock, John barely inclined his head to the left as he fired, and Sherlock obeyed immediately, pitching left.  It saved him, was his story, that John had issued instructions to him before firing.

John insisted that there was no time for any of that, and that they were too close for any cues or evasiveness to have been remotely possible.

The security guard reported that he saw the stand-off and that the shot fired in the heat of the moment was incredibly accurate.  The four men - John, Sherlock, Lestrade, and the guard - were in an A&E bay awaiting further care for John.  Sherlock’s temple, hand, wrist, and arm wounds were cleaned, bandaged.  He had been given a towel with which to clean off the bits of blood and gore.

John was also rather lucky, injury wise.  The shot that the sniper ended up getting off missed the mark only due to the fact that John also pitched left after he fired at the man holding Sherlock.  The Kevlar vest would have saved him a penetrating chest wound, but the trajectory of the bullet grazed over the top of his right arm and shoulder outside the vest, leaving a groove through the muscle.  One of the other providers in the A&E had promised to come clean and suture it when time allowed.  John was holding pressure but the bleeding was continuing.

The ICU charge nurse who had accompanied John hours previous to lend assistance poked her head in to the room.  There was mostly a silent exchange as she took in the injuries.  “Need anything?” was all she asked quietly; her expression relayed that she was relieved that he was indeed awake and ostensibly going to be all right.

"Sutures," he muttered, shaking his head, and then he puzzled at how the motion affected his equilibrium, made him a bit queasy.  “I’ll be upstairs in a couple minutes, when things are better down here,” he assured her, but the words were slow, fuzzy and a bit slurred.  All eyes turned toward him.  He laughed, slightly inappropriately.  “Or not.”  He closed his eyes, fighting dizziness and feeling further oozing from the burning shoulder wound.  

“John?” Lestrade went to the doorway to see if any medical help was nearby as Sherlock rose, reaching his own bandaged arms out toward the saturated dressing over John’s shoulder.  John's own hands were rather ineffective at holding dressings in place at the moment.

“’m ‘k.  Jes’ dizzy.”  Despite being rather symptomatic, John realised at precisely that moment he would be getting no sympathy from his flatmate, who was presently laughing as he tried to hold pressure on the oozing shoulder wound.  “ _Shh_.”

“Don't be ridiculous.  You’re not ok.  Tipsy, perhaps.”  The inappropriate laughter, everyone knew, was typical Sherlock, who could find humour where there was none.

“’m fine, gimme a minute, lemme get sorted here...”  Something in his slightly addled state of mind seemed to be driving him beyond reason, and he swung one leg over the side of the stretcher as if getting up would somehow, miraculously, help to clear his head.  

One of the other medics arrived at Lestrade's request, and without fuss, picked up John's escaping limb, placed it back with the other.  “Back in bed with you,” the medic said, cycling a blood pressure reading and finding it low, heart rate elevated, and agreeing that the shoulder wound needed a few stitches to control the bleeding.  While they waited for a physician to be available - to Sherlock’s frustration, who didn't appreciate the fact that John’s suturing needs were not exactly life-threatening - the medic started an IV, infused some fluids to alleviate the orthostasis.  He lowered the head elevation of the stretcher, put the siderail up before leaving, and instructed Sherlock to make sure that John stayed put.

“I want to help.  I’ll be there soon as they’re done here,” John muttered.

The medic snorted, nodded, and, before leaving, said to them, “You’re not much good to anyone if you pass out on the floor.  Don’t make me bring out the restraints.”

John looked over at Sherlock, whose expression was pricelessly smug.  John glared then, his eyes flicking to Lestrade in warning.  To Sherlock, who was vividly recalling when John had threatened _him_ with restraints, he said, “Shut it.  Not. One. Word.”

++

The Med Exec board director was at his bedside, a notepad in hand and a puzzled look on his face.  “And you were wearing a bullet proof vest and armed with a weapon, why?”

John’s jaw clenched as he pulled the scrub top down over the shoulder dressing, and while he sorted out what words would suit, he shot another warning glare at Sherlock.

“You realize you’ve put us in a terrible position, the press has been awful.  One of our physicians, the new Intensivist, for God’s sake, carrying a weapon and killing a man?”  His voice carried a high pitched, tremble to it, clearly afraid.  “The headline on the telly called you a vigilante.”

Sherlock had had about enough.  “You realize there was an intruder on campus, threatening lives, hundreds of people at stake, many witnesses, many dead already in his wake.  Dr. Watson acted entirely appropriately.  You should be thanking him rather than interrogating him.”

John cleared his throat hoping Sherlock would stop there.  No such luck.

“You realize had he not acted this way, your hospital would be mostly in rubble, lives ruined, the city would never be the same.  You wanted a leader, you hired a leader, well,” he said, pausing in the scathing comment, “ _you bloody got one_!”  Sherlock leaned back, arrogantly dismissing the complaints just through body language alone.  “And John is ex-army.  Him going into a potentially hostile situation without gear would be like you going to a board meeting without your mobile.   _Puh-lease_.”  And Sherlock angled in the chair, closed his mouth, dismissing any remaining dissension.

The crisis had petered out, arrival of further wounded abated, and John’s Intensivist partner had come to check on him.  In part, it was to make sure he stayed put, and he assured him the critical units were fine and that he was to go home.  The wound had been sutured, and the IV removed.  Mycroft arrived, appeared stealthily in the doorway, his PA alongside, sans umbrella probably due to the necessity of immediate and continuous mobile usage.  It ended up being, John realised, at Sherlock’s request, and primarily to provide transport back to the flat.  The brothers shared conversation, mostly non-verbal as per their usual, except for what included John.

“Dr. Watson.”

“Mycroft.” 

“How are you?”  It was an odd question, even for Mycroft Holmes.

John considered multiple responses, all snarky, chose instead, “I will survive.”

“Impressive marksmanship.”  John realised that it was as close as Mycroft would come to expressing appreciation or saying thanks.

“Clever evasive maneuvers, too.”  John acknowledged Sherlock’s part in fleshing out the intruder while avoiding injury.

“Indeed.”  Mycroft's glance was stoic as he looked from one to the other.  “The video footage was rather remarkable.”  He stood to full height then, continued.  “The man you had worked on with the crush injuries to his legs was the brother of one of my employees.  I hear he owes his life to the both of you.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who explained briefly, “Lestrade and I found him at the blast site, trapped.  Moved some pilings off to get him out.”  John knew beyond a doubt that Sherlock was downplaying his role, that the rescue had been far more dangerous than that.  “He will also recover?”

Mycroft nodded.  “The family is most grateful.”  He responded to his mobile then, stating quickly, “Your ride, whenever it suits.”  His driver, then, held the door as they left.  While John did desperately want to check on his units, he was quickly reminded, by his own aching and weak muscles that home was his only viable option.

The car ride back was silent as they fought congested streets and impatient drivers, and John fought to stay focused.  Sherlock reached over, placed a warm hand on John's knee, said, “Close your eyes, it's ok.”  The hand stayed, centering.

They entered the flat, as usual, and Sherlock muttered something about needing a shower.  John agreed, making a face and knowing what was still in his hair and on his collar and clothing.  The door to the bathroom was open, and he followed eventually, tentatively standing in the doorway, wanting to assess his own damages before the mirror steamed over.  Shirt removed, he peeled back a corner of the dressing, his wound was angry looking, a groove across the muscle of his right upper arm. The aching was beginning, and John knew as the local anesthetic wore off that it would likely be burning for a few days.

The shower snapped off, curtain whisked back, and the men made eye contact, oddly silent and reflective.  Sherlock pulled a towel around him and asked, “You jumping in?”

John declined, saying only, “No.  Need to keep this dry a few days.”

“Well, here, then.”  John watched Sherlock apply the drain, begin to fill the tub, and indicate for John to get in.  When John balked - both at the activity and the caring gesture - Sherlock muttered imperatively, “ _Get in_.”

“Your hands?”  John looked at his wounds, across his hands, wrists.

“Are fine.”  

When John still paused, Sherlock cocked an indulgent smile at him.  “Without looking at your mobile for time or date, do you have any idea how long it’s been since you were here last?”

Rather than answer, John quickly removed the rest of his clothing, obediently.  He wondered, distantly, if he was still in shock, as he allowed Sherlock to wet, lather, and rinse his hair, then matter-of-factly help him wash while keeping the shoulder dressing dry.  John found his voice again after the tub was draining and there was a towel thrown at his head.  He was slightly relieved to see Sherlock's feisty-ness returning.

“How many people have ever seen this side of you?”

Smirk.  “Two.  And they are both in this room.”

“Thanks, then.”  John worked the towel over his hair.

“If you tell Mycroft I will _hurt_ you.”

John was fairly certain Sherlock was jesting, but assured him he had no such intentions.

Before long, they were seated on their bed, reclining against pillows, reheated Indian tandoori chicken takeaway between them.  Neither was particularly hungry.  John leaned back, his eyes closed, and he became aware of slight ringing in his ears.  Previously there hadn’t been enough quietness to notice.

“Your ears ringing too?” he asked Sherlock quietly.

“Of course.”

“How are you _really_?”  John let the question hang.  “Pretty close call.  You seem pretty damn calm about it.”

“Wasn’t the first close call.  Won’t be the last.”  He reached out a long leg, warm toes touching John’s leg until John looked over at him.  “I didn’t have a split-second decision to make though.”  

“Army training reflexes.  I don’t think anyone fully regains civilian status.”

Sherlock nodded at his shoulder.  “Doing ok?  Need pain meds?”  John shook his head.  

John bit a lip, nervous, his thoughts whirling, then spoke.  “You know, I'm really grateful...”

Sherlock listened quietly, nodding, and when the interval lingered, Sherlock continued for him.  “...that the guys are neutralised.  They will be hurting no one else.”

John snickered just slightly, shook his head.  “No.  Not that at all.  Grateful that... we’re both...” he paused again, gesturing between them and Sherlock's eyes widened in comprehension. “When those guns were fired, I really had no idea if that was going to be it or not.”  

“I know, me neither," he said slowly.  They both were contemplative.  "It was a nice shot, you know.  I feel like I should say thanks.”

“Thanks to you, as well.  Probably your last minute movement threw off his aim at me, too.”

Sherlock removed the plates, clearly neither was eating, and he returned to bed.  Finally, he spoke again, asking, “How likely are you to have nightmares tonight?”  The question was posed gently. 

“Good question.  The last time I saw something resembling combat, after my injury, I... yeah, struggled with them."

"I know.  Or, I kind of guessed,” Sherlock told him.  “I knew you had a few after moving in here, and suspected they were worse right after being sent home.  And the night you had such bad insomnia, remember I came to check on you.”  It had been the first night they’d slept together.  

“Of course you did.”

“I knew you pulled it together rather well, after the war.  So,” he let the sentence trail off.  “Tell me what I need to know.  Are you likely to strangle me in my sleep?”

“Why, did you leave the kitchen a mess again?”

"Probably.”

John sighed.  “No, no instructions.  I don’t think I’m prone to committing violence in my sleep.”  Sherlock turned out the light, plunging the room into darkness.  John felt each thrum of his heart pounding in his ears, and deliberately slowed and deepened his breathing, feeling already his mind shifting into overdrive.  A warm hand reached out for his, a gesture of comfort and solidarity.

“You ok?”

“Mm-hmm.”

“I can _feel_ the lie, just so you know.”  One of Sherlock’s fingers was over his ulnar artery.  “You’re breathing faster, heart rate up, mildly sweaty.”

“Maybe it’s arousal?” John said into the darkness, his voice low. _Inhale, exhale_.

“Not exactly an appropriate time, John.”

“Because _that_ would stop us.”    John stretched out a leg, his toes feeling cool on Sherlock’s calf.

"John."  A quietness ensued, there in the black room, Sherlock's warm hand a steady, comforting presence.  John lay there, still feeling his pulse pounding, his eyes wide even knowing there was nothing to see.  His ears still ringing, he felt Sherlock turn onto his side in order to slide his other hand into John's hair, still slightly damp.  "Sleep, it's ok.  I'm not going anywhere.  And you did all the right things today.  No question about it."

Releasing a shaky breath, John forced his eyes to close as he wished, again, that he'd been equipped with a power-down on his mind.  "I guess.  Thanks.  This may be a long night, I'm thinking."   _Inhale, exhale_.  John let his toes slide along Sherlock's calf, let his leg rest flush with Sherlock's.

"No sex."  Sherlock said quickly, emphatically.  "You need to rest."

"If I were taking lessons from you, I would be whinging already.  And trying to tell you that sex helps people sleep.  Especially after stressful or dangerous situations."

"Oh, stop bitching.  For pity's sake.  You're injured.  You sleep a few hours, and then I'm willing to negotiate for sexual favours."  When John opened his mouth to speak, Sherlock immediately cut him off.  "Stop.  Just for tonight, I am in charge here."

 _I am in charge here_.  John let the words echo in his head, perhaps he would seize that as his mantra for the night.  He felt his breathing ease and his heart rate begin to settle.  His words triggered a sentimental chord in John's chest, and the fingers in John's hand tightened slightly, a reminder of their close proximity and availability.  Warm lips brushed and lingered on the side of John's head, and he heard Sherlock inhale deeply.  It was rather centering until John realized that he was probably appreciating the scent of his own shampoo in John's hair.

John reached his hand over, aiming for the bedside table and hoping to find his mobile there.  Sherlock cleared his throat in a warning tone.  "I have your pager.  I also have both mobiles.  They are behind me, and everything is turned off.  You are in recovery mode here, and the hospital - and London - will survive a few hours without either of us being electronically available."  Sherlock's finger was still over John's ulnar pulse, and he chuckled quietly, deep in his chest.  Arms tightened then, bidirectionally, and their heads came closer again, breathing deep, relaxation still elusively in the wings, but imminent.  "And yes, I like the smell of my shampoo in your hair." 

Over the next few days, the news circulated stories about an unstable pair of brothers with a personal vendetta who plotted against London in general.  John had neutralized one brother; the other had taken his own life when confronted by police.  The death count rose but all agreed it could have been catastrophically worse.  John and Sherlock finally gave up on watching regurgitated news reports while John’s shoulder healed quickly.  By the time he returned to work, bullet holes were filled, crime scene tape had been removed, blood stains cleaned, and things had almost gotten back to normal.  For as much as John appreciated the wild unpredictability of medicine, he was grateful for a few weeks of routine-ness.

++

The tuxedo-clad pair arrived fashionably on-time.  Sherlock had been lobbying for a late arrival, but John insisted that the medical realm typically does not wait for latecomers, as scheduling can be enough of a nightmare obtaining appropriate coverage and on-call responsibilities.  The medical staff dinner at the Stafford Estate promised to be rather boring, with presentations, a few speeches about the state of healthcare in the UK, and the obligatory fundraising.  But the success of the intensivist program was being touted, and the organisers had asked John, as the new director, to share a few minutes of observations and thoughts on the state of the program.

Sherlock was only in attendance because he’d fallen victim to yet another failed gamble on his sexual prowess and lost.  And, as John knew yet again that the win had been sheer eleventh hour luck on his own part, he’d negotiated not only his partner’s attendance tonight at the dinner, but on the skimpy, tight, black satin pants Sherlock was wearing beneath the resplendent, well-tailored trousers.  Purchased exclusively for the evening, much to Sherlock’s chagrin and John’s amusement.  Now, as they both engaged in a few conversations around the bar, he glanced over and saw Sherlock noticing him - because he bloody well noticed everything - and slid his own arm casually down his side, drawing back the jacket and sliding his own hand, slowly, deliberately, seductively into his trouser pocket, tilting his slim hip as he did.   _Ah, dinner and a show_.  John’s gaze flicked to Sherlock’s face, caught the sparkling eye and the smirk without missing a beat of the conversation at hand.  John grinned into his drink, wondering, yet again, who was being further tortured at the thought.  Sometimes, he recalled yet again, there was only a thin line between winning and losing.

John was introduced to a few spouses of some of the board members, worked his way a step closer to Sherlock in order to reciprocate the requisite introductions.  Sherlock had just received his gin and tonic from the barmaid, pushed the lime in with his finger and drew said finger between bowed lips as he turned to John.  Their eyes met, heat exchanged, the slow slide of Sherlock's actions going straight to John's gut.  Sherlock, setting his drink back on the bar, reached out with non-salivary hand and exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes.  The evening passed in expected social niceties, appetisers, a few raunchy jokes and self-directed barbs at the medical profession in general.  And the also expected dark medical humour.

John’s portion of the evening was very early, and he opened with his favorite Descartes one-liner, and then spent the next three minutes explaining where the intensivist program was now, where it was headed, and what his expectations were.  He thanked the Med Exec board for their support, the physicians for their interest, and the community for their backing.  The accompanying slide presentation was simple and to the point.

Sherlock leaned in when he was seated again, complimented him on his humour and his brevity, and complained that the pants were making him hard.  John leaned back into his chair, a smug grin on his face, and prepared to enjoy the rest of the evening out in public.  And to savour the great anticipation that was building between the two of them.

The end of the evening found John very grateful that he was paying attention to more than what was beneath his - and his flatmate’s - zipper.  One of the staunch hospital financiers took the microphone to close out the evening, but asked for everyone’s attention for an unusual award that would be presented tonight, the first of it’s kind.  He said, “This has been a noteworthy year for London, the hospital, as our community has been tested, risen above adversity, and we would like to recognise Dr. John Watson for his service in the recent attacks...”  and John rose carefully to his feet as directed and acknowledged the applause.  The speaker continued after a brief, factual recap of the events.  “Presenting the award to Dr. Watson tonight is Mr. Holmes, member of the Med Exec board, who was perhaps most directly affected by Dr. Watson’s involvement that afternoon.”

On the front screen flashed a photo, obtained somehow, of them in the A&E.  John was pointing at something out of the photo perhaps, his eyes bright.  He had obvious dressings over his injury, held in place by DI Lestrade, and Sherlock was visible in the image, brushing a towel over his face or hair and looking rather bedraggled.  It was not a glamorous photo, but neither was it distasteful.  John had never seen it before.

Sherlock avoided the typical humorous opening, saying instead after a smooth entrance and receiving of the microphone, “I certainly never expected to have blood and gray matter sprayed all over me that day at the hospital, and definitely never expected that our Lead Intensivist would have been the one to put them there.”  He paused, allowed the brief moment of chatter, applause, and the feigned-shocked reactions twitter about the room.  “Oh well,” he continued, catching John’s eye meaningfully as he said, “Good thing I wasn’t wearing my black satin formalwear, that day, I guess.”  He nodded at the person overseeing the projector, and the photo faded.  When he paused again, John was grateful for the dim lighting as he blushed to the tips of his ears.  “Dr. Watson doesn’t recall the directions he was able to communicate prior to removing the threat to our community that day, but I remember very clearly the way he tipped his head, indicating that I needed to get out of his way.  And, his skilled communication, whether verbal or otherwise, is exactly what this hospital program needs.”  He spoke a few more words, then gestured at the envelope that had been passed along.  “This represents a small token of the gratitude of the community for service that day, and is the first ever Beacon award.  Thank you, Dr. Watson.”  The mic was re-commandeered and an explanation was given of the small financial gift along with a descriptory plaque that would be mounted in the administration wing of the hospital.

John nodded to the applauding gathering once more, and gratefully reclaimed his seat.  

Sherlock joined him, leaned in as John muttered, grinning, “Shameless PR stunt?”

The smile reached Sherlock's eyes as he nodded, “Of course.  Takes the focus off the negative press.”

The evening ended shortly after that, and the crowd thinned rather quickly as physicians returned to their duties and the rest made quick work of saying goodbye and left.  John had many well-wishes and thanks expressed to him, some of it nostalgic but all appreciative.  Everyone had a story that day, John knew, and listened to the few who shared them.  It was humbling, he realized, that he was singled out for his efforts when there were abundant examples of bravery, heroics, and selflessness everywhere, from every corner.

Sherlock stood off to the side as John spoke with the few lingering souls.

“So,” John said, when he’d finally shaken off the last of the people, “how’s that black satin treating you?”  As expected, Sherlock’s breath hitched and his pupils grew dark and round.  John pressed.  “You ready to model them for me?”

“Say the word.”  He looked mischievously around the room.  “Crowd’s mostly gone, and those still here, well, who cares if they mind.”  His hand came up behind John’s elbow, warmly surrounding, his grasp heated and gentle.  “Do me a favour?”  His voice, lowered and quiet, went straight to John’s crotch.  The last word was drawn out, sexy and husky and full of promise.

‘How long have you known about _this_?” He glanced at the envelope and plaque he’d been given.

His lopsided smile revealed that he knew exactly where John was headed with his commentary.  “Couple weeks.”

“Wait," his eyes narrowed.  "So, you're telling me that you lost the bet on _purpose_?”

He let his eyes linger on John’s, and his expression was humming with energy.  He waited much longer than necessary, their eyes meeting, holding.  Finally, he spoke, “Which time?”  He let that sink in, watched John’s shocked expression change to merriment.

_“God help the lot of us.  Let’s go home.  I might have a little wager to discuss with you.”_

++

fin

++

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here is John's opening joke from the meeting:
> 
> René Descartes walks into his favorite bar. The bartender says "Hey, René, gonna have your usual?" "I don't think I am." And he disappears.
> 
> ++++
> 
> There is already a work in progress of the deleted scene of what _exactly_ went down when Sherlock lost the bet to Dr. Watson that precipitated his attendance as well as his attire at the dinner.
> 
> It is unfortunate that combat does allow for medical advancement. According to a Gulf War vet I spoke with, in Operation Enduring Freedom, the story about lining the sternum with IO lines and allowing a few liters of IV fluids to infuse is true. If the wounded soldier had a pulse at that point, the medics would then begin to work on them.

**Author's Note:**

> I love the confident side of Dr. Watson. And for as much as a brat as Sherlock can be, it is occasionally fun to dabble with his "sentiment."
> 
> There is an explicit rated epilogue that follows. 
> 
> I would love suggestions for perhaps a brief follow-up to this pairing. 
> 
> Of course, I would even more dearly love if the Mofftiss would just listen to the fandom, too. *sigh*
> 
> Thanks for reading.


End file.
